


Dogs, Wolves, and Daisies

by nihilisticspacebear



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Adventure, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Character Study, DA:O Warden Amell, F/M, Fenris/Aveline friendship, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Other, Sibling Rivalry, Slow Burn, Templar Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 36,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24446527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilisticspacebear/pseuds/nihilisticspacebear
Summary: "You can't strike a deal with a Witch of the Wilds and hope nothing weird is going to happen."After meeting the Asha'bellanar, the Hawkes are left with a strange task. Whether it's a curse or a blessing, neither could say.Garrett and Carver strive to make a life for themselves in Kirkwall, torn between sibling rivalry and survivor's guilt.A merry band of misfits, held together by a ball of twine.
Relationships: Carver Hawke/Merrill, Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 18
Kudos: 65





	1. Ostagar

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to fanfiction, writing this mostly to get it out of my system, so bear with me.

"Should I go look for her?"

Carver paced nervously between the tents, looking in the direction of the main camp for a sign that might calm his unease. The outline of the Tower of Ishal loomed in the distance.

Garrett was busy painting fresh khaddis onto the mabari's short thick fur, the cracked and calloused palms of his hands stained a deep red. Hard to believe he'd been tilling soil only a week before. The wardog sat still, except for the excited wagging of its stubby tail. It turned its head and stared lovingly at its master, a thin thread of spittle hanging from its mouth. 

"Then who's going to search for you?" said Garrett without sparing him a glance. He could make the 'digging trenches with your pacing' joke only so many times. 

Carver merely glared at the jab. More anger to release in the coming fight or in his next training session. He tensed, muscles like cut marble under the skin of his bare arms. Garrett, on the other hand, went on testing him.

"What do you think, boy?" He gave the mabari a good scratch behind the ear. "Are you gonna go after Carver when he gets lost?"

The wardog barked.

"Of course he will," replied Carver, "Unlike you, he cares about his family."

The wardog barked once more, it's tail wagging even faster. It was Garrett's turn to bristle. No matter the effort, it was never enough. He could mock and laugh all he wanted, at the end of the day, the joke was always on him. 

"Bethany's a grown woman, she'll be fine," he said.

"A woman and an apostate," Carver added, "In a warcamp. Crawling with Templars, I might add."

He picked up his battered greatsword and slung it across his back. None of them had proper armour. The war with the darkspawn had come too fast. Garrett's weapon was propped against a boulder, a barbed wooden staff ending in a blade long enough to avoid suspicion and short enough to be useful in a melee. 

"You forgot about the darkspawn," said Garrett, "And the Chasind, and the bears. Not to mention the chanters, Maker preserve us." 

He patted the mabari's flank to signal he was done and took to applying the khaddis onto his own skin.

"You promised mother you'd look out for her."

Garrett glanced up at his brother and so did the mabari. The dog whined softly.

"And you insisted that I stop treating you as a child, remember?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Bethany's as old as you are. You can't ask me to regard her as a child and expect to call you a man."

"Ah, this again," Carver groaned, "You sound just like father."

Garrett shrugged, unamused. 

"There she comes." He tilted his head in her direction, then went back to smearing red markings on his arms.

The three of them left Lothering a few days before. When the news came that the King's army was gathering forces at Ostagar, Carver ran away and wild horses could not drag him back. Drunk on tales of bravery and adventure, the boy was determined to prove himself in battle. Garrett had gone after him but Bethany had followed. Why would her brothers go alone, when she had trained by Garrett's side ever since she came into her magic. No amount of threatening or pleading could coax her to go back. Either they all returned together or she stayed. Garrett argued little, even so more out of a sense of wounded pride than anything else, until he gave in. He knew Bethany too well.

Malcolm had raised stubborn children. 

Despite Ferelden's bloody past, none of them had ever seen a battle. They were born into peace with nothing to fear but the Chantry that could drag them off to Kinloch Hold. Despite all their bickering, the siblings only grew closer after their father's death. With his lack of magic, Carver dreaded nothing more than awaking one day to find himself an only child.

Bethany sauntered over to her brothers, carrying firewood and a bundle hanging from the crook of her arm. The barbed staff slung on her back resembled Garrett's. Her long dark hair had loosened from the ribbon she had tied it with and her cheeks were flushed, but she was beaming.

The mabari jumped up to greet her. 

"You'll never guess what happened," she said, dumping the wood on the ground.

"A dragon showed up and burned all the darkspawn to a crisp," said Garrett.

Bethany laughed.

"Wouldn't that be nice?"

"Nice?"Carver cut in, crossing his arms.

Garrett sighed in only half mocked disappointment.

"The Grey Wardens have arrived," his sister said and both young men perked their ears.

"The Orlesians everyone is talking about?" asked Garrett.

"No, they were Fereldans by the sound of it," she smiled. "But it gets better."

"Oh, how so?" 

Bethany siddled closer, still blushing.

"Well, after I got the supplies, I decided to go all the way to the main camp." She bit her lip, taking note of Carver's concerned look. "Sorry, I just had to see it for myself, alright? I heard they brought mages from the Circle and I wanted to see what they were like. No, I didn't speak to any of them, not with all the Templars around. By the way, I think you'd look great in armour like that, Carver." 

Her compliment did little to stifle his worry. Garrett, on the other hand, was listening intently. 

"The Chantry sisters were holding a sermon, you know, the usual sacrifice for the Maker's glory stuff."

"With an additional side of doom upon the world, I assume," said Garrett.

"That goes without saying. I didn't get too close. I do know better than that. However," she paused again, looking from brother to brother. "There I was, carrying all this stuff, when I ran into a Grey Warden." She sighed pensively, then looked at Garrett. "Tall, blonde, griffon armour, positively dashing. Kind of cute too. He offered to help me carry everything and, Maker, it was tempting."

Carver tried to ignore the complicit smiles exchanged between his siblings. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.

The scene plays on in Garrett's head before he loses the battle with seasickness one more time. Sprays of saltwater whip at his face as the ship sways. He cannot stand the crowded hold, the stench, the crying children, and Leandra's absent gaze. Every now and then he glimpses the Templar's wife, singled out by her fiery red hair, and every time he does he remembers those awful makeshift mounds they piled in the wilds. The dragon did come but it had done so far too late. 

The mabari whines softly beside him, nuzzling his leg. He takes out the witch's amulet and looks at it, lest he give in to the urge to throw himself overboard in the hopes that the sea could wash away his guilt. Even misery is now a luxury he cannot afford.


	2. Sundermount

"Remind me, Hawke, to lodge a complaint with the Maker when we're done here." The dwarf stops, gasping from the effort, hands propped on his knees. "Whoever came up with the idea of mountains must really hate visitors." He waves away the concerned looking mabari sniffing in his direction.

Garrett turns to him and grins.

"Want me to carry you, Varric?"

"As lovely as that sounds, I'm afraid I'm going to have to say no to being swept off my feet by a strong Fereldan man. I appreciate the offer though."

"Don't forget handsome," says Garrett, "And charming."

"And full of it," Aveline cuts in, unamused. 

"I know you love me, otherwise you wouldn't have followed me all this way."

"Shut up, Hawke. I'm only here because the witch helped me too. And because I don't trust you stay out of trouble."

Carver groans, squinting at the winding path ahead of them. They've been trekking for hours, albeit at a steady pace. Aveline would have preferred to be back by sundown but nobody felt like being marched on at her orders, least of all Garrett. The view, however, is stunning enough to warrant the delay, a welcome change of scenery from Kirkwall's cramped squalor. Were it not for the strange nature of their quest, this would have made for a nice outing. 

"Did we really had to leave the Irons for this, brother?" 

"No, we left because mother was going to kill me herself if you showed up home one more time all covered in blood."

"For the last time, it wasn't mine. I just broke the guy's nose because he wouldn't pay up."

Aveline clamps her hands over her ears.

"Maker, I shouldn't be listening to this."

"As if the guards didn't know what we were doing," scoffs Carver, rolling his eyes. "And that's not it, Garrett. I know you. The day you'll give a shit about what mother says is the day I become a chanter."

"Best practice your sermons then."

"What happened to becoming a Templar, Carver?" Aveline asks.

"I can't even get accepted by the city guard, it would seem."

"We talked about this. I need people that I can rely on, not more to worry about. The Templars could teach you some discipline at least."

"And they say it's us apostates that want to sabotage the Circle," chuckles Garrett. 

"I'd have done it to protect my family," says Carver, ignoring his brother. "But Bethany's gone and Garrett's got Meeran looking out for him. No, wait, _had_. Before he decided to go freelance."

"I don't need a middle man to bribe the Templars for me. I can squander my sovereigns just fine on my own."

"What about the respect, huh? Nobody spat at us or called us dog lords while we were with the Red Iron."

"That's right, doing so behind our backs was so much better than in our faces."

Carver just shakes his head and makes a dismissive motion with his hands before striding ahead. 

"We can do better," Garrett shouts behind him. "Isn't that right, Varric?"

The dwarf heaves but gives a choked reply.

"Right, I believe in you, Hawke."

  
***

"I don't like this," mutters Carver as they are leave the Dalish encampment to continue their ascent. "There's got to be a catch."

Elven men and women eye them warily, hands on their weapons. The red sails of the aravels are still but there is a chill in the air. Somewhere, a halla leaps among the sparse mountain shrubs. 

"For once I agree with Junior," says Varric, fingers itching to touch Bianca. "Nothing good can come out of more climbing."

"I doubt they'll let us turn back now," says Aveline.

"Oh, that's just Dalish hospitality," tries Garrett. "They're even giving us their first. Isn't that nice of them?"

"Yeah, something about that doesn't sit quite right with me." Carver draws closer to his brother, enough to whisper. "You can't strike a deal with a Witch of the Wilds and hope nothing weird is going to happen."

"Deliver the amulet, go up the mountain, say a few elven prayers, and we're done," says Garrett, "Sounds easy enough."

About as easy as the events that brought them here. For one year, he's been messing with that amulet to remind himself it all happened. It had been tempting to forget. Shove it in a chest or pawn it for gold and never think about it again. Maker knows they could have used the coin. Meeran paid well but he expected blood. There was always a list of people to be set on fire. One year of that had been enough, for the family's sake. 

What would have father said about him using his powers like that? Or even Bethany?

He used to believe the witch was nothing more than a powerful apostate but the Keeper's reaction told him otherwise. No take-backsies then. Another deed in the long string of awful things he had to do for their survival. 

"What about the part about taking this 'first' with us back to Kirkwall when we're done?" asks Carver.

"What of it?"

"Remember those old fairy tales dad used to tell us as little kids? What if it means one of us has to like marry her or something? You know, if it's some weird elven custom where they take offense if we refuse."

"Do you think she can turn into a dragon too? That would be cool." The thought makes Garrett beam with excitement.

"What if she's just as old as that witch? Or really, really ugly? By the sound of it, they're trying to get rid of her, not do us some favour. What if that's the reason? I heard Dalish are old fashioned like that."

"Then let me be the first to congratulate you, brother."

"Let's hear it for junior!" Varric joins in.

Even Aveline can't stifle a laugh.

"Hey, stop that!" yells Carver. "Garrett's the eldest. If anyone's to be saddled with some Dalish outcast, it's got to be him."

His brother gives him a pat on the shoulder. 

"Judging by the fond looks they were giving us back there, I'd say we're safe on that count." 

The words do little to set the young man at ease. What good can come of meeting with some creepy Dalish witch that lives on a mountain because her own people won't have her? What does 'first' mean, anyway? First of what? Her people? Wouldn't that make her a crone, even as an elf? He pictures spiders, warts and crooked noses, even a cauldron. There are all sorts of rumours going around about the Dalish but if there's one agreed upon fact, it's that running into them never ends well. Carver can only shudder. 

"Is _that_ the only thing on your mind?" asks Aveline.

"And mother thinks I'm the menace." Garrett looks at his brother and shakes his head. 

"I wasn't, ah, this whole deal is your doing anyway. The last thing we need right now is another apostate to keep out of trouble."

"Seconded," says Aveline.

"Well, I'm sorry. Next time a dragon witch swoops down to save us from certain death I'll keep that in mind."

"I mean it, Garrett. I'm not putting in more work just so we can keep up with the bribes."

"C'mon, Junior, family's more important than gold. Besides, business is coming, I've put out the word and we agreed I'll help."

"This isn't about you, Varric."

Hawke would have argued more if it weren't for the slender silhouette that just slid into view at the turn of the path. He motions them to be quiet as the elf approaches. Not that they'd need the warning. Carver is already dumbstruck, mouth half open and staring. The mabari barks and rushes up to sniff her, tail flailing.

"Aneth ara," she smiles, reaching out to pet it. "The Keeper told me about you."

Garrett feels a hand on his shoulder and hears the young man mutter through his teeth, his voice a choked hiss:

"I take it all back, brother. Forget everything I said."


	3. The Best He Could Afford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried expanding on the events of Bait and Switch, hope it's not too repetitive.  
> This is going to be a slow burn but I'm happy to set it in motion.  
> Also mild trigger warning: there are some mentions of harassment in this. I'll try to point out when there is something potentially upsetting or graphic.

Fish, fish, fish. One more day holed up in here and he'll go mad. By this point they could just sniff him from a mile away. The coin is running low as well. Unless he robs someone again. Freedom isn't much for now, perhaps more trouble than it's worth, yet he's come too far to give up. 

They have arrived in Kirkwall, a whole contingent, maybe the magister himself. Moored the ship on the Wounded Coast, lest they be seen. They wish to do it quietly, without risking a diplomatic incident, that much is evident. 

Fenris counts what's left of his sovereigns. He can't do any sellsword work with his pursuers nearby. The local guilds have already taken notice and sent more than one man looking for the knife-ear newcomer stealing their business. He dreads to think of what will happen once they catch wind of the bounty on his head. With that in mind he ventures out to find the dwarf. 

***

"What do you mean you don't have the coin? Do you wish to die?" He grabs Anso by the collar of his shirt and pulls him close, menacing enough even without the lyrium flaring across his skin. 

"By the Ancestors, please, I told you. Bastards robbed me blind. If it wasn't on their corpses, then it's gone." 

He is telling the truth, broken up as it is by whimpers, pleas, and prayers. Years of service have made Fenris persuasive like that but no amount of terror is going to summon him the gold he needs to keep moving. 

Fenedhis. He cannot hope to outrun them without a fight. Somewhere in that squalid mass of buildings and dark alleys there is an iron collar waiting to be fit. The very thought makes him sick. He barely notices that Anso is still talking.

"...asking around. What if I could help you with that instead?"

"What?"

"Tevinters, claim to have information to trade about an escaped slave. You know how this place works, they were looking to sell it to whatever interested parties might arise, say there's a nice reward for bringing him back."

They're getting clever. After the previous teams got slaughtered, they thought twice before going in themselves. 

"What did you tell them?" Fenris grabs him again and shoves him into the wall, even fiercer than before.

"Nothing," he squeals. "But maybe I can help, call our debt even."

"Get to the point, dwarf."

"I know a guy who knows some guys. Fresh out of work and desperate but they've got a reputation. Won't be missed either, if that's what you're planning."

***

"The Hawkes?" The drunk laughs. "Ye're not from around here, are ye? Ye one of 'em wandering Dalish bastards?" The man squints, taking note of his tattoos. The hood of his cloak hides his white hair but there is nothing he can do about those without looking even more conspicuous. 

"Not much of a talker, eh?" 

Lost a copper to useless prattle. The tension of the wait must be getting to him. He just came back from the coast but has a few more hours to go before the trap can spring. The ship was still there, as ominous as ever, beckoning. He followed a nearby creek, stripped off his armour, and scrubbed the fish stench from his skin. He saw their campfire on the beach but couldn't count them all. Too many. Others were sure to be waiting on board. He needed a lure of his own. One dead watchman to be found later, short of a heart.

"Ye piss 'em off or something? My condolences if that's the case." The drunk dock hand spits. "So what about them, eh? They're Fereldans, ye know, dog lords. Ever seen a mabari? This big, all muscle and teeth, will take a man's arm off in one bite." He holds up a mauled hand wrapped in dirty rags. "I got lucky, they weren't in a bad mood when I ran into them." 

He takes a swig from a near empty bottle and shakes his head. Fenris can tell the man is pondering whether he should tell him more or not. 

"Guess ye haven't heard what happened in the Hanged Man the other day. No? This Dalish wench saunters in. Crap, ye're Dalish too, aren't ye? No? Well, this one was the real deal, face tattoos and hunter leathers. Just walks in like it's nobody's business, all fallen from the sky like. Pretty too, for an elf, 'nuff so that a couple of the boys start callin' out to her. Then Tethras comes in before they can make a move. Tethras? Oh, ye're really new here then, give it a day or two. Ye're bound to run into him one way or another. Now the boys, they decide to stay out of his way, go wait for her outside. Big mistake. 'Stead of a rabbit, they get the Hawkes and, Andraste's tits, they're angry. Boot's the only one that lived and he won't be using his hands any time soon. Rest of 'em got gnawed at, or worse." He won't say more.

***

Garrett goes through the day's messages, two letters on stained parchment waiting for him on the wobbly table that refuses to stay fixed. The first one, sealed with wax in a heavy envelope, is from Meeran, some of his leftover pay enclosed within. He'd caught Gamlen just as he was weighing it in his palm, against Leandra's protests. An open invitation to return, at his own will, to the Red Irons. 

To call the other one a letter is perhaps too generous. A folded scrap with a brief message, written in a shaky hand, hinting at a job. 

He puts the two side by side and ponders. Kill for others, or kill on his own. Not that he's picky. Killing at least feels more honest. He's seen refugees and apostates forced into worse places. This way he doesn't have to think about lyrium, poison, or slaves, about innocent strangers suffering from his actions. If he's to do awful things, might as well own up to them, feel guilt and pray there is enough intoxicating swill in the taverns to drown it out. Most of them have it coming anyway, he's yet to meet someone whose departure hasn't made the world a better place. 

What would father say? His mother has already made it clear, even if she's more worried for Carver's sake than his. Leandra's mage children both died in the Wilds that day, Garrett just lacks the common sense to lie down. The coin he makes is still good though, a necessary sacrifice she puts up with for the family's good. He doesn't hold it against her. Leandra could have sent him to the Circle and be done with it. 

The mabari lays its head on his lap and sighs before staring up at him, its dark eyes filled with love. Garrett smiles and pets it. Tonight they will both wear khaddis. 

***

"Who the fuck are you?"

Garrett's rage is almost palpable. Those men had been professionals. Fancy armours, good weapons, military titles. It was a close call. Did he just see this guy rip a heart out? As Varric would put it, he's seen some weird shit but this shit in particular gives him pause. 

Nevertheless, he goes on barking curses. 

"Had I told you the truth, would you have come?" 

Garrett falters for a moment, one finger frozen midair. He takes another look at the corpses strewn around the Vhenadhal, half charred and one third frozen, bolts sticking out. His heart is still racing. Carver and the mabari are little worse for wear but otherwise standing. He soothes the tensed wardog growling at the elf but keeps it by his side. They are both afraid, ready to lash out, trying to appear more intimidating when cornered. 

"Fair point," he says eventually.

He wouldn't have. What was he? Crazy? To a point, yes. But definitely not murder a small army of Tevinter soldiers crazy. And for what? The alienage square is dark but for the magelights on their staves but he could swear he saw those odd markings on the elf light up. Something catches in his chest, followed by a warm feeling spreading to his gut. They're talking but Garrett finds himself wondering what the rest of those tattoos look like under all that spiky armour. Eyes up, idiot. He shakes off the distraction. What are you? A dog? He's being played.

"You use us and now you want our help? Andraste's flaming fucking asscheeks, the fucking nerve."

The anger is back. Like he's going to drag his friends, his brother, and his dog into another death trap. No reward, either. This mess is bound to cost him anyway. No way they can mess with a magister and hope people won't notice. The mabari lets out a bark, in tune with its master.

A few steps away, Varric clears his throat, to little effect. A swift punch in the arm shuts Garrett up. 

"Stop yelling," says Carver, "You're scaring Merrill."

He points to the mage hiding behind her staff, trying to make herself as small as possible and Garrett sees the way she is bitting her lip to hold back tears. Suddenly, he feels like an ass. 

Eyeing him warily, Varric sidles up to the elf and reaches for her hand.

"There, there, Daisy. He doesn't mean it."

"I'm sorry, Merrill." His voice is sheepish now. It's hard to see himself reflected in those big green eyes, another angry shem shouting at people. "I shouldn't act out like this. I'm sorry I put you, all of you, at risk. This is my fault."

The fight's gone out of him. 

"We're helping him, right?" is all she replies. "We have to."


	4. Date Night

"Varric, how's that lock coming along?"

"Poorly, damn thing's rusted shut."

The fighting had been vicious but quick. A couple of men but mostly demons and traps, a brief taste of Tevinter hospitality. They grabbed whatever wasn't bolted down and seemed remotely valuable. All things considered, it was a fair haul.

Garrett was ready for another argument but the elf didn't seem to care. He sat on the main staircase, brooding, while they went through pockets.

"Let me try."

"No offense, Hawke, but making it explode isn't going to help anyone."

"Nonsense, my spellcasting is very refined, I assure you."

Fenris listens in on their exchange in one of the rooms behind him. His body is flaring with pain but he is still, too numb and despondent to react. No information and no Danarius, the whole affair pointless. The Dalish has nestled herself in a corner. She sings softly, an elven lullaby, while stroking the head of the bloodstained mabari in her lap. He recognizes the song but can't make out all the words. The younger Hawke pauses his looting, letting a corpse drop with a dull thud.

"Are you alright?" He asks her, not before slipping an accusing glance over his shoulder, one that Fenris ignores.

Bah, fussing over a blood mage like that.

"The stone's a little cold and all the blood makes the floor a wee bit slippery. Should have worn shoes."

"You fought well back there. Thanks for watching our backs."

"You too," she smiles, "And your brother, and Varric. We should do this more often." She pauses, musing. "Maybe with less shades around."

A sudden blast shakes the whole building, followed by a litany of curses.

"Maker's balls, Hawke! We can't sell splinters."

"Minor miscalculation. Are you alright, Varric?"

"It's on fire."

"Oh, wait, I can fix that."

More spellcasting noises.

"Well, shit."

The mabari lets out a bark and runs up the stairs to check on its master. Unbothered by the fresh cuts on her arm, the young Hawke helps the Dalish to her feet.

Just his luck to end up working with mages - a maleficar and a madman. No wonder people stay away. He'd leg it before they take notice but what's the point. The swordsman eyes him carefully. Strong kid without any discipline, Fenris scoffs, swings like a rookie and leaves himself open.

The Dalish won't stop grinning at him, no matter how much he glares in return - which is rather rude on his part, he realizes, given that none of them would have bothered to follow him here if not for her unexpected intervention.

Then there's Hawke, the older of the two, walking out of the room, soot and warpaint smeared across his face. Like a proper barbarian, Fenris can't help but notice, precisely the kind of savage portrait conjured in Minrathous society whenever someone mentions the South. He's neither as tall nor as broad shouldered as the younger one but beneath all that filth there might actually be something worth knowing. He's never heard of a mabari obeying a mage, or seen one fight beside the other. Had Fenris himself not seen him cast spells, he'd never suspect this man of being an apostate and that does end up teasing his curiosity, whether he cares to admit it or not.

***

Garrett hands him a heavy bag. A few pieces of jewelry, an antique vase, and some trinkets - the evening's spoils, a lot of it probably junk, Carver suspects. Not that he minds tonight's escapade much. They got to kill things, steal things, and break into a mansion in the middle of Hightown.

"Take these and head back," says his brother, "Try not to get robbed on the way. Varric, you go with him. Make sure Merrill gets home safe."

Carver holds the bag in front of him, his brow knit, eyeing Garrett.

"You're not coming?"

"Someone has to deal with our new friend over there." He tilts his head towards the elf that's leaning against a wall not far away.

"You sure you want to do this alone, Hawke? I can walk Daisy home, so Junior's free to stay."

"No, mother's probably worried sick by now."

"Varric's right, I don't like leaving you with this guy."

"Don't be silly," smirks Garrett, squaring his shoulders. "I could take him."

Carver does nothing to hide his concern as he stares past his brother, measuring the elf and the mean looking broadsword within his reach.

"Yeah, no," he says, shaking his head. "You absolutely couldn't. I've watched the guy fight and believe me when I say you wouldn't stand a chance." Garrett's ill placed cockiness is going to get him killed. "You'd be dead halfway through your first spell."

"Uhm, let's not forget the part where we saw him rip a guy's heart out with his bare hands," adds Varric, just as worried for once.

"Or how he lied to us and nearly had us all slaughtered."

"Or how he made it a point to tell us he hates mages."

"He wouldn't hurt one of the people that helped him," chimes in Merrill, "Right?" The last word sounds more doubtful than she'd like.

"Nonsense," Garrett waves them all away. "I'll be fine. I'll just use my natural charm."

The star struck look on his face doesn't do much to reassure them. Carver caught that spark in his brother's eyes just before they went in and now it's back. Yet he heaves out a sigh and relents. No point in arguing with Garrett, much less in front of the stranger.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs and turns on his heels. "Come on, Merrill. Let's take you home."


	5. Meeting with the Captain

"You're here, lethallin!"

Much to his discomfiture, the Da - Merrill sees him first. Nobody's called out to him in the open like this since Minrathous and even there, such abject displays are frowned upon. They're in broad daylight, after all, near the Viscount's Way, surrounded by the gentry of Kirkwall going about their day. A couple of heads turn but nothing else comes out of it.

"Do not call me that," he growls, turning to face her. "You and I are not friends."

She stops, suddenly unsure of what to do, and gives him a puzzled look before extending a small bag in his direction.

"Cookies? I got these from Varric."

The dwarf follows behind her.

"I'd venture not all the honey in the Marches could sweeten _him_ up, Daisy."

The Hawkes saunter over to them, weapons slung across their backs. Both made an effort to wear their least ragged shirts today.

"Don't mind if I do," says Garrett, reaching into the bag. They share a smile that makes Carver cringe. "I told you he'd come, Varric. You owe me five silvers."

"Well, shit. I stand corrected."

"Save them for my tab at the Hanged Man."

They actually made a bet on it, Fenris realizes. He hangs back as they make their way into the Keep. Hawke strolls in like he owns the place, as if they weren't the most suspicious group on this side of Thedas. Nobody seems to care much. A couple of people greet Varric, a few stare at Merrill. Most of the nobles ignore them, except for one that makes it a point to turn his nose at the Fereldans.

"Smells like dog in here. Who let these filthy turnip pickers in?"

Carver wants to go and face the man but Hawke lays a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head. Fenris almost misses the slight wave of his fingers but his markings react to the hex, weak as it is. An ornate fitting breaks nearby, hits the cleaning servant's bucket and overturns it, spilling murky water over the nobleman's shoes. The latter erupts into yelling.

"Rickety, you'd think they ought to take better care of the place," says the mage to no one in particular.

Carver disapproves but can't help cracking a smile. Varric chuckles and Merrill is none the wiser. Immature and reckless, thinks Fenris. This is why mages belong in a Circle. Hawke smirks at him as if to issue a challenge. Picking a fight right here would be ill advised though, especially when the mage claimed to be an old friend of the Captain's.

A guardswoman stops them and demands they remove their weapons.

"Come on, Brennan. It's just a stick," says Hawke, still smirking.

"Doesn't matter," says the guard, "Wouldn't want you poking someone's eye out." It's obvious they all know.

Fenris doesn't like parting with his blade but he surrenders it anyway. The guard looks at him, then at Hawke, who just shrugs.

"I'd advise against cracking any jokes with the Captain today," she says.

"What else would she call me here for if not to entertain?"

The guard merely shakes her head.

"It's you she wants to have a chat with," she says, "Rest of you wait outside."

Garrett turns to them and grins.

"I told you she has a soft spot for me."

Fenris and Carver exchange an irritated glance and the latter sighs.

No sooner than Garrett speaks that the wooden door bangs open, a tall freckled woman in full armour filling its frame.

"Hawke!" Her voice is half thunder, half growl.

"Aveline!" He replies in a jovial tone.

She steps to the side and points.

"In my office, now."

Garrett signals Fenris and the elf follows him inside.

"Not you, Carver."

The young man stops in his tracks, lets out a groan, and turns to join the rest as the door slams shut behind him.

"Care to explain why the canal was full of dead bodies this morning?" she asks Hawke, making no attempt to hide any of the anger in her voice.

"What, more than usual?" he replies, just as flippant as a few moments ago.

"Soldiers, Hawke. Tevinter, I'm told."

If she glared any harder, he'd burst into flames.

"How did they tell you that? You said they were dead."

Her bearing and her scars suggest this woman is no stranger to combat. The sword strapped to her hip is not a ceremonial prop. Her armour is shined and maintained but marked by a couple of dents. Out in the field often, Fenris notes, not one who orders her men into action from the safety of her rank.

Aveline slams her fist into the table.

"Damn it, Hawke, one more stupid quip and you're leaving with the Templars." She lets the threat sink in, before continuing. "What did you do?"

The mage falls silent. Many unspoken things seem to pass between them. The captain reiterates her question, staring him down and Hawke is tense, shoulders stiff, head slightly lowered, almost holding his breath.

"It's my fault, actually," Fenris hears himself saying. Annoying apostate or not, the elf is not about to let him suffer the consequences alone.

Only now does the Captain look at him. Hawke slips ever so slightly out of the way and Fenris braces himself for the woman's rage.

"And who are you supposed to be?"

The elf gives her a brief report on the events. To his surprise, her features soften as he speaks. When he is done, she waits for a few moments before looking from him to Hawke, and back.

"My apologies, I am Captain Vallen of the City Guard. Has he given you any trouble?" she asks, pointing to the mage. "Whatever he says, you don't owe him anything, is that clear?"

"Aveline!" cries Hawke.

"You shut up," she orders him, "I'm not talking to you."

"You asked me to come!"

"And you could have told me this from the beginning, Hawke. You could have brought him to me instead of running around the city setting people on fire. Slavers! In _my_ city!"

"Under your nose," Hawke weighs in. "Luckily, you have me around to deal with them."

"Get out of my sight," she points him to the door. "Fenris, would you mind giving Brennan a full report on this? If there are any of them left, I want my men to take care of it."

Carver spills inside the moment Hawke opens the door, a sheepish look on his face. Varric pokes his head from the doorway and says hello. Merrill simply waves behind them, smiling.

Aveline lets out a sigh.

"Maker, the lot of you."


	6. House Warming

"Away with you!"

Merrill chases the rat with a broom until it scurries into a narrow crack in the boards. How do they even fit through those? She thought she'd found and covered all of them. Not that there is much ground to cover. Varric keeps offering her a room at the Hanged Man. It wouldn't be much of an improvement but she'd at least have a window and fewer furry roommates. 

"Daisies need light," he tells her. "Wouldn't want you wilting in here."

It might not be her aravel on Sundermount, with the stylized rendition of Arlathan in bright paints and handcarved halla reliefs, yet this is how so many of her people live, huddled together in their cramped dwellings around their Vhenadhal. She still has a duty to uphold. Varric is sweet but he wouldn't understand. 

There are worse places to be, like a cave or a ditch. Here nobody knows her name, except for those who speak it fondly, and nobody is afraid, apart from the shemlen that notice her vallaslin. Yet she does not mind - home is not a place. 

***

The floor is strewn with planks and tools. Garrett and the dwarf are building her a bookshelf. Carver sits on the ground, unsure of what to do with himself. He'd like to help with the crafting but they don't seem to need him. On the tiny table next to him lies a leatherbound grimoire and a clay vase with fresh flowers. Something has nibbled at the edges of the book. He glimpses at the narrow bed in the next room, a straw mattress and a brown woolen blanket not much better than his own. At least she doesn't have to share. 

"Would you like something to drink?" Her closeness startles him. "I have some tea, or water, if you'd like." The tattoos on her face frame her smile and his heart runs away a little. 

"I brought booze," says Garrett, "And Varric's got some sandwiches."

"Courtesy of Norah at the Hanged Man," says the dwarf. 

"I, uh," Carver fumbles for a reply. What if tea's a bother? What if water makes her think he doubts her ability to make tea? "I'll have whatever Garrett's having."

He watches her skip barefoot amid the nails and splinters scattered on the floor, glancing at the soft green fabric of her tunic, the loose belt on her waist, the leather trappings on her slender limbs. Maker, how can she be so small? The bottle she pulls out of the bag looks twice as big in her hand and he helps her with the cork, excited to be given a task. 

Their fingers brush when she hands him a cup but he's afraid to linger.

Garrett does however, without any shame. He grins at her too, all wit and charm, even pays her a compliment and makes her giggle, as does the dwarf. It feels like they're in Lothering all over again. 

He nearly chokes when she sits next to him. If he had Garrett's nerve, he'd edge even closer, maybe work an arm across her shoulders. Instead he swallows hard and fights the urge to fidget, trying to focus on what Varric and his brother are doing. 

"Do you like it here?" Who in the Maker's name would? He immediately feels like an idiot but if she notices, she doesn't seem to mind.

"Oh, it's been interesting so far. The upstairs neighbors yelled all night and I saw someone get robbed in an alley." Her gaze slips to the crack in the floor. "I think the meat from the food cart outside is rat," she adds, her voice low and her brow knit.

***

"Makes Gamlen's house look like a palace, if you ask me," says Garrett, "Are you sure you don't want to take Varric on his offer? I know I would."

"No, these are my people, Hawke. We Dalish tend to forget what it's like for them."

Garrett doesn't even want to imagine what Varric is paying. Being an apostate is bad to begin with but an elf, on top of that, must be so much worse. Blood magic or not, Merrill does not deserve this and he cannot help but feel a tinge of hate towards her clan. The Keeper must have known where she'd be sending her but given how the others reacted - the curses, the glaring, the threats - they hadn't come a day too soon.

That Merrill could see all this and continue to care about them as "her people" does not fail to move him. 

The evening treads on as they drink and talk about Ferelden. The bitter winters and the tasteless stews. Mabari litters and livestock. The end of the Blight. They ask her for a story and she tells them of the faded glory of old Elvhenan, speaking in her soft Dalish lilt and like children, they listen, bewitched. 

A dull ache pokes Garrett as he remembers Bethany doing the same in what feels like someone else's life. Father did his best to bring them new books whenever he got the chance, which they used to read together, or to each other, hiding in the loft by candlelight. When it came to telling the stories though, she was far better at it than him. Carver asked her often enough. Beth always obliged, be it the things she had read or her dreams of the Fade. 

He drinks and will drink more when he gets home, lest demons come to tempt him in his sleep. 

***

Before they leave, late in the night, she hugs each of them in turn. Merrill smiles but does not say it - this is home.


	7. Grey Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some Hawke/Anders flirting (not enough to warrant a relationship tag but it's there). Feel free to skip the second part if it feels too jarring in the context of an upcoming Fenris romance, the scene itself is mostly due to Hawke just being Hawke.

Garrett's gone out on his own again. Between Gamlen's nagging and Leandra's letter writing, Carver can't stop fidgeting. The room they share is far too small to pace. His blade's already polished, the tears in his armour mended, his routine training done. 

At the foot of the bed, a chest holds all that's left of home but he can't bear to open it today. Last time he did, he cried over a hairpin. 

One of these days, Garrett's going to get hurt and he'll be the only Hawke child left. It could be a Templar or a stray arrow in one of the many scuffles they keep charging into. It could be Carta, or Coterie, or any of the toes he's been stepping on lately because Garrett seems to have a knack for pissing against the wind. He wants to grab his brother by the shoulders and shake him, to yell or slap some sense into him but he knows his pleas would fall on deaf ears. No matter what he does, Carver will always be the child who needs protecting. Like he did at Ostagar, when Garrett followed, like in the Wilds, when Beth took the charge, or like he's doing now, not telling him anything, not asking him to come along unless Carver insists. 

They give each other space. For better or for worse, he's never run into Garrett at the Rose. Part of him though would rather see his brother chasing after Katriela or Cora, than getting plastered at the Hanged Man with that silver tongued dwarf and the elven fugitive that lied to them. Neither however are as bad as that apostate in Darktown, all snide remarks and speeches on the mages' plight. That Garrett is so quick to trust them with his life just drives him up a wall.

He wishes they could talk but it always ends in a fight. No matter the path, all the roads lead back to Beth and to that sordid day in the Wilds. 

Carver remembers his own fear with vivid intensity. The way she shouted something at them and her sudden absence. Their paralysis. The overwhelming stench of the darkspawn. How Garrett followed, a moment later, calling upon a firestorm. That was not how it was supposed to go, not what they had trained for. He should have been the one to attack, to keep them safe while they cast their spells from a distance. Not that it would have made much of a difference in the face of such a beast. They weren't Grey Wardens. That they managed to bring down the ogre at all was a Maker given miracle.

He lies down on his cot, reciting what bits of the Chant he can recall from his brief lessons in Lothering. A soft crackle of paper reminds him of the small bundle of letters underneath his clumpy pillow, his father's correspondence with the Templar he's named after. He would have loved to meet the man. 

From the other room comes mother's renewed yelling. Curses and accusations, the wounded Amell pride. He gets up to leave before he's left to console her again. Today he simply cannot. At least Gamlen shuts up at the sight of him.

"I'm off to look for Garrett," he tells her, hugging her on his way out. Leandra hugs him back and has a hard time letting go.

"Please be careful out there," she says.

"I will." 

He forces out a smile, angry at himself, then heads off to the Rose.

***

Meanwhile in Darktown, Garrett muses over a stained grimoire. Traces of elfroot, by the smell of it, where the owner must have spilled a potion. A couple of pages are marked with dried embrium blossoms and some other plants he cannot name. A lean tabby cleans itself on the cramped desk in front of him, sitting proudly on a stack of moldy tomes. The mabari watches it warily from his feet. 

  
It's not everyday Anders comes across a fellow apostate moving around so freely through the city. He'd heard the local rumours about a sellsword with special talents but never expected to meet the man face to face, much less on amiable terms. Nobody mentioned he was this good-looking either, or this sociable. A bit of digging revealed him to be a destitute Amell, a name and a crest Anders has come to dread. After it turned out that he wasn't there on behalf of the city guard or worse, at his cousin's request, the two of them got along like a house on fire.

"You want my expert Grey Warden advice on this expedition?"

"Since you're offering."

"Don't."

"Well that was helpful."

"I'm serious, Hawke. Nobody should ever have to go down in the Deep Roads."

"You said your cat went there and lived, so which one is it?"

"My cat had me to protect it." 

Garrett raises an eyebrow at him and grins.  
  
"The answer is no. What you're planning is insanely reckless. I wouldn't go back there even if you bound me and dragged me."

"Kinky."

They both laugh and despite himself, Anders feels like blushing. 

"You're no kitten."

"I could meow if that helps."

"And I'm the kinky one. Thank you for putting this image in my head."

"I'm joking, of course, please do not make me meow. Time is running out and so is my coin and I don't have to tell _you_ how hard it is to be an apostate in this city."

The healer sighs, shaking his head. 

"Help me out and I'll give you the maps. No more, no less." 

  
Garrett snaps the grimoire shut. He's already overplayed his hand and let his mouth run as usual, an oversight he suspects he will come to regret. Had Anders not been an apostate himself, he would have had no qualms in going for a threat instead. Part of him regrets not bringing Carver along for that sole purpose but now that the terms of their agreement are set, he understands it's for the better. 

"Give me time to find the right people," he says. 


	8. Like a Dance Half Remembered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: violence and abuse. This is Fenris we are talking about, so it's bound to go there.

A man on the run does not so easily get used to house calls. 

When the city guard first showed up on his doorstep, Fenris reached for his sword. The young recruits yelped unheroically at the sight of him and threw up their hands begging. The Captain warned them beforehand, no drawing weapons if they wished to live. Rather than order them to go, she'd given them a choice - her way of being a benevolent superior. It was either this or tailing Hawke, and nobody wanted that. The last men who did eventually turned up in Darktown in nothing but their smallclothes, although coming face to face with a lyrium ghost in one of Kirkwall's long abandoned mansions was shaping up to be somehow worse. 

They told him this and more, clattering in their armours as they delivered the Captain's message, then proceeded to scurry away like the rats in the cellar after being reprimanded by the elf on behalf of their fumbling. Had actual Tevinter agents been instead of him, they would have been dead before knowing it. 

Pueri viridis. 

Captain Vallen was a good woman, albeit still learning to lead. Her genuine concern for the welfare of Kirkwall's elves was not lost on him, the first officer he's ever met to care about such things and to lend him an ear on the matter, on top of that. Despite his initial suspicions, it turned out to have little to do with the mage. She listened close and took swift action. The result was that a few alienage residents went back home instead of sailing off to Tevinter, her reassuring words more than mere political drivel expected of someone in her position.

However, it wasn't just public safety the Captain was worried about. Every time they met, she would pester - no, fuss over him - with matters of his own welfare.

"Are you safe? Do you need somewhere to sleep? When was the last you ate a decent meal?"

She wasn't asking casually either. Every few days he'd find a small package in the main hall with rations and fruit. Sometimes there was even a note that he could only stare at, hoping to intimate the contents by its look alone, too ashamed to tell her he could not read.

***

"Pay attention to your guard!" Aveline shouts at the recruit as she swings. The young man flinches then cowers under the blow. The clash of metal against wood echoes through the courtyard. "Shield up! Mind your feet! Keep your balance!"

They all know better than to drive the elf away. A couple of trainees nod a salute when they see him. Fenris leans against the stone wall of the barracks and watches the Fereldan woman's practiced motions. She is holding back, afraid to hurt the man. Her movements are often deliberately slow, so he can parry yet his fear is too great to focus properly. 

The elf does not remember his past but for the start of his advanced training. He must have known how to fight before. His body remembered, even when his memory drew a blank, feet moving of their own accord, senses sharp, muscles tensing. His masters would not hold back though. The earliest thing he can recall is being beaten senseless by one of them. The brands were still fresh then and beyond his control, a myriad of wounds flaring like white fire through his flesh. It was hard to focus as pain drowned out the world around him. Instinct was all he had left.

He was nothing but a weapon, a dull blade to be honed. There was no room for thought and even at the best of times all he could do was stare down the void within him, at the empty recesses that once contained a life.

Captain Vallen could not be further away from the people who trained him. When her recruits get knocked over, she helps them back on their feet and makes sure they can stand. When they no longer pay attention she lets them go. Nothing to be gained by hurting them, she said. If they don't understand what's going on, there's no way they will grasp what's expected of them. Her men need to learn, not fear.

They are but children, Fenris thinks, all of them. Most have never had to spill blood in their life. And Aveline is kind. They will never be forced to suffer what he has, or even what the average Tevinter soldier has to endure. The hint of a sad smile tugs at the elf's lips.

"We're done for today," says Aveline to the recruit, dusting off his armour. "Work on your footwork and pay more attention to my movements next time, alright?" She turns to Fenris, grinning. "Now I could use me a good fight, something to keep me sharp."

"No, I'd rather not," he tells her, shaking his head. "You know what can happen."

"That's why I'm asking," she says. The remaining recruits cheer. "Let's show them what a proper battle looks like."

Despite himself, Fenris gives in and strolls over to the weapons rack, picking a longsword that he weighs tentatively in his hand. It's a battered dull blade meant for training, lighter and shorter than what he's used to but it'll do. He stretches his back, warming up as Aveline, shield in hand, beckons. She puts on her helmet and assumes a ready stance. More cheering ensues.

A friendly match. It's been a while since he's done such a thing. Not since Seheron. Taarvat, Sedhara, Ev'rad - he tries not to think of them. One step, then another, swing, turn, swing again. Both blows catch on her shield but he drops, feints, strikes high and to the side. She parries, narrowly. Aveline drives him back with a charge, strong as a battering ram, then follows up with a savage blow that he evades. Her heavy armour doesn't hinder her at all. She might not be as experienced as a captain but she is definitely a seasoned knight. Breaching her defenses without using his power is hard, though he doesn't mind the challenge.

From the sidelines, the cheering continues. Dusk bathes the courtyard in warm light. Fenris is swift and agile, a body all sinew and muscle moving of its own accord. It's all that remains of him, like a dance half remembered from a dream. 

They circle one another. With another charge, Aveline brings down an onslaught of blows. He dodges most and parries some, but the final strike of her shield connects with his side, throwing him off balance. There she hesitates instead of going in for the kill, a chance he does not wait to exploit, disarming her. 

"There's hardly any room for kindness in battle, Captain Vallen."

"Yet there is always room for mercy," she says, smiling as she removes her helmet, her red hair sticking damply to her forehead.

In spite of her warm smile, she is breathing heavily. He has hardly broken a sweat yet feels far better than expected. There are things to remember and things he'd rather forget. Some he believed lost along the way. Those evenings in Seheron, however, are just where he left them.


	9. Matters to be Brushed Aside

"I have never seen this woman before in my entire life," says Carver, eyes the size of plates as soon as he notices the Rivaini standing beside Garrett at the bar. 

"That's right," she tells his brother, "because he had his eyes closed the whole time."

A choked sound escapes Carver's throat. He can feel the tips of his ears burning with shame, everything made ten times worse as the woman holds his gaze and smirks. Maker, no! This isn't happening. At least Garrett's already too drunk to care. All he does is snicker, an idiotic look plastered on his face, until she turns to him, bumping a hip into his thigh. Only then does he turn and squint at her, a slight rush of colour in his cheeks.

"I don't suppose you'd care to avenge the family honour," she says, running a finger across his chest with a sensuousness that makes Carver sick.

"I'm sorry," slurs his brother. "But the only thing I'm avenging tonight is my sense of balance, offended by this vile concoction here."

"I'm standing right here, you know," says Carver. 

How much has Garrett told her, he wonders. Then again, he wasn't that sober himself the other night, otherwise he would have given the woman a wide berth. That set of daggers she carries makes it clear she's not just a whore. 

"Ah, now you remember me," she laughs. 

He makes an effort to ignore her, walking past them and waving Corff for a drink. At least Merrill isn't here tonight or he would have been forced to leave Kirkwall and join the Grey Wardens. Garrett might forget about it in the morning, so all's well provided the dwarf doesn't find out. He'll never hear the end of it then. Much to his discomfort though, the Rivaini slides next to him, all warm tan skin and wicked grins, tapping the bottom of her cup against the wood of the bar. 

"So, about last night," she says, her voice languid and breathy.

He clears his throat, struggling to think past the images flashing through his head.

The words come out more confident than he dared hope when he says: "Let's never speak of it again," enough so to warrant a raised eyebrow on her part.

"Such a shame," she shrugs, turning her back to the bar and downing the last of her drink.

***

"I think I can see Sundermount from here," says Merrill, shielding her eyes with her palm. 

"Really? How can you tell?" asks Varric. "I've been living here my entire life and all the mountains look the same to me."

Hightown's old battlements provide them a good vantage point, a breath-taking view where rocky spines arch on the horizon like a high dragon's back. He would have liked to show her the side where the Wounded Coast collapses into the Waking Sea but that's too close to the Gallows for comfort. Not that Daisy pays it any mind. Like those flowers growing out of the stone's cracks, she seems immune to all the squalor and the struggle around her - a character walking into the wrong story. 

"Now that you mention it, I'm not so sure anymore." She sits on the stone parapet, dangling her legs, wiggling her toes. "You have crumbs in your chest hair again." 

"Hawke would say I'm saving them for later."

"Are you?" 

"No," he chuckles, brushing them off. "Those pastries are to die for though."

She smiles, wind through her hair, the waning sunlight casting golden glints in those big green eyes of hers, the same eyes that drink in his every word whenever he spins a tale. 

"What's it like, Varric? Living among humans - as a dwarf, I mean."

"Hard to say, Daisy, I've nothing else to compare it to. Though given some of the dwarves I know, humans aren't so bad. Some are even fun to be around."

"Like Garrett?"

"He's one example I can think of."

"What about Aveline?"

"She's alright but fun isn't the first word that comes to mind. Unintentionally funny, perhaps."

"Carver?"

"Junior? Maybe in a couple of years when he grows up. Do you have any siblings, Daisy?"

"I don't know," she ponders. "I wasn't born into my clan. The Keeper took me in when I was still a small child, so I don't remember much. The others were like siblings to me though."

No, don't be sad. Of course she misses them, no matter how eager they were to send her packing. Family is family, after all, no matter how many death glares and daggers you throw at each other. He doesn't envy Carver but then again, he doesn't envy Hawke either. None of them are alike and yet there is something terrbily familiar in their situation. He ought to make some notes later - a union of concerned, yet antagonistic siblings, doing what? There is at least some good foreshadowing in there. 

"My offer still stands, you know," he tells her, eager to divert her attention as inconspicuously as he can. Not that it ever bothers her.

"And so does my decision, lethalin."

They share a smile, she at his solicitude, he at the elven term of endearment. There has to be a law in Kirkwall prohibiting one from being so cute and carefree. Either that, or the Viscount will start drafting it the moment he lays eyes on her. Time to hide her away.

Extending a hand, Varric gives a slight bow and helps her off the battlement. Don't ever change, he wants to tell her. If Bartrand drags them into the Deep Roads, this is what he wants to remember. In the face of a world so brutal and blasé, that smile is the most defiant thing he can think of. Even so, maybe Bartrand won't. Maybe there is no Grey Warden, no maps, no path. 

There are easier ways of making coin, if only that was all they were after.


	10. The Chantry Job (part 1)

The mabari's growl echoes through the main hall of the mansion.

"Put that thing away before you hurt someone," says Hawke without sparing him a glance. "And you, quiet!" 

The dog settles down with a whine. How many times did Danarius do the same with him? The sullen mage sitting on the steps with his staff across his knees possesses none of that imperious bearing. Fenris sheaths his dagger. He hears the strain in Hawke's voice when the latter asks:

"Interested in a job?" 

***

The gloom in this boarded up mansion is about as heavy as his heart, yet he he dares not make his staff shine brighter. Even with the corpses gone, the place reeks of misery. Was that a rat? Are those bones? Whatever you do, don't think about the spiders. The veil is weak from all the fighting and he half expects the shades to return. At any rate, it's too late to turn tail.

Garrett knows it's a bad idea but he's out of options. There is no way he can allow Carver to get involved in this. They've braved a fair deal of danger together, both during their time with the Red Iron and before but this is a whole different story. 

By the time Anders had finished giving him the details, his mind was made up. 

Unlike himself, Carver deserves a future. Being so closely related by blood to an apostate is bad enough - even though Carver himself scarcely admits it - what Anders is asking for is punishable by death, should they be caught. The thought of his younger brother clashing with the Templars for their sake is ugly on its own. This fight is not his. 

But of course they need the damned maps and Garrett's determined to see it done. 

Surprise, surprise, more people to kill, more dirt to dig his hands in. What is he fighting for if not to give his family a better life? One more obstacle out of the way and if he can bloody the Chantry's nose while doing it, all the better. 

He can't pretend he does not care for the healer's plea. Their cause is just. After all, Anders isn't that different from himself, is he? It could have been him in that position, or Beth, or Merrill, so what difference does it make? Maps or no maps, it would be hard to stay away. At the end of the day apostates need to look out for one another. 

If that means asking a self declared mage hater for aid, then he will bite his tongue and do it. 

Beats summoning a demon, right? 

"What kind of job?" asks the elf, emerging from the shadows.

Garrett hesitates for a brief moment, startled by the intensity of those deep green eyes staring into his. Maker, he is beautiful, even in this darkness. Focus, idiot, you came here for a reason.

No point in sugarcoating the inevitable. 

"The bad kind," he says plainly.

"How bad?"

"Walking-blindly-into-a-Tevinter-slaver-ambush bad."

"Oh, I thought you said you were never doing that again."

"It's complicated."

"What is it that you want from me, Hawke?"

Seeing him naked might be nice. Garrett is a simple man but he could think of a few other things, none of them acceptable in polite company. The look on his face must be telling, because the elf tilts his head ever so slightly and waits. 

Yes, words, he ought to use them.

"The same you asked of me, when we met. A friend of mine needs help."

Fenris raises an eyebrow but remains silent. And unreadable. Much to his unease.

"I can't ask Carver." There is a small crack in his voice and Garrett hates himself for it. The elf is the last person in front of whom he'd like to show any vulnerability. That's how apostates land themselves in hot water. Suddenly, all that blathering about the Circle makes him nervous. "And dear old Aveline is bound to tell me to fuck right off."

Garrett wants to bolt. Now that he's doing it, the sheer stupidity of his idea strikes him with full force. 

"I can offer coin, if that's what you want," he ventures, half bluffing. The price would be steep but he's about to gamble on the expedition's outcome. Either he comes back a rich man, or dies trying. 

He fumbles through the rest of the details with what he hopes is charm and a confident smile.

"That bad then?"

Shit. 

"Very well," the elf nods, no trace of anger in his voice. "I shall provide the assistance you seek."

Garrett stares at him dumbfounded until the realization sinks in. That went suspiciously well. Perhaps he's just that smooth. Or is he? 

***

The tunnel is pitch dark and pregnant with Darktown's stench. He understands right away he isn't going to like this by the way his brands prickle painfully as he advances. Magic, aimed at him, ready to hit. The faintly glowing staff in the man's hand is a dead giveaway. 

"Stay your hand, mage, unless you wish to die." Under any other circumstances, he wouldn't have bothered issuing a warning but his instincts tell him this is Hawke's "friend". Fasta vass, of course he's an apostate. 

"He's with us, Anders," says Hawke.

A long whistle of appraisal echoes from behind.

"Andraste's pious titties, Hawke," says a female voice he can't place, "You never said he was hot." 

With catlike steps she stalks out of the shadows, circling him close. 

"You never asked," says Hawke, folding his warpaint covered arms. 

"Fancy meeting you here," adds the other apostate, his tone far more casual than Fenris would have expected.

They have a history, it seems. But that matters little by this point. He corners the man responsible for this mess.

"Care to explain, Hawke?"

"Explain what?" 

"You never said your _friend_ was an apostate." He spits out the word.

"What difference does it make?" He's challenging now, shoulders squared, voice harsh, like that night in the alienage, the red dash across his face making him look fierce. "A friend's a friend, mage or not. I've already told you -"

"That you conspire with others of your kind? Yes, you made that clear."

With the corner of his eye, he catches the Rivaini reaching for her daggers. The other mage grows tense as well. 

"Then why are you here?" scoffs Hawke.

"Because I told you I would and I'm a man of my word."

"Great, if you've any more second thoughts, now would be a good time to leave." 

"What will you do then?"

"Say a prayer and hope for the best." Hawke throws back his head and sighs, the living image of a man without a plan, charging into danger, and why? 

"The man we're supposed to _rescue_ , I take it he's a mage as well?"

Of course it's mages. It's always mages.

"I knew you were bright." 

That insufferable smirk is reason alone to turn back and leave them be. Every fiber of his being is screaming that he do so. And yet, had Hawke not felt the same? Did he not ask him to follow into what could have been their grave? To risk his life for his own vengeance? 

"Vishante kaffas. You believe this is worth it?"

"Yes," says Hawke without hesitation and the determination in his eyes is enough to give Fenris pause. 

"Let us make haste then," he concedes bitterly. 

The sooner he is done with this, the better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, a quick thank you for making it this far :)
> 
> Secondly, this bit turned out longer so it's going to be a two-parter. 
> 
> Cheers for Chapter 10!


	11. The Chantry Job (part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Fenris/Anders rivalry, some harsh takes on mages. Going mildly off the script with Tranquility to fit the mood but no canon deviations.  
> General sadness and angst. 
> 
> Next episode it's fluff, okay?

Great, now he can have nightmares about never having nightmares ever again. The glassy stare, the inflectionless voice, that sinister sun branded on the man's forehead - Garrett's never met a Tranquil before but he recognizes the signs right away, a harsh reminder of why he needs to stay hidden. 

They caught a glimpse of them at Ostagar, or at least Bethany did. The sight alone had shaken her: bodies reduced to mere things, alive yet lifeless, performing the most tedious of tasks. Anger followed close, along with outrage and an awfully familiar despair. The two of them had talked about it a couple of times growing up as they held hands and made promises. He would not forget. 

Sweet pious fuck. 

At least the elf didn't betray them. Maker it would have been easy, and the more he looks around, the harder it is to hold it against him. 

We aren't monsters, he'd told Fenris - then Anders started glowing. 

Was this a joke? Because the punchline isn't funny. 

If Beth were here, she'd know what to do. Garrett never does but for some reason people keep expecting him to. 

***

Hawke had no idea, that much is obvious. Whatever shadow of a plan he might have mustered up along the way went out the window the moment they arrived. 

"Do we kill it?" he asks, pointing vaguely in the abomination's direction.

The mage shakes his head. For better or for worse he seems too upset to pay any heed to the monster's pleas. Fenris knows that expression well - a mixture of anger, hurt, and betrayal - even if he's only seen it once. He'd rather not have to deal with it again. 

"The maps, Anders, Justice, or whatever's in there," he says. "As we agreed." 

The air is charged with their magic, both apostates wary and ready to lash out at one another. He ought to leave and let them settle it alone. The Rivaini and he exchange a glance, her likely trying to figure out which side to pick should it come to another fight. In spite of everything though, Hawke concedes with that same look of resignation he'd given him that first time. No! This is in no way the same thing! Fenris had good reasons, he had cause. This, this abomination, this weak-willed mage had lied to them and used them to further his own wretched pursuits. And Hawke is stupid enough to fall for it, foolish enough to believe and give the benefit of doubt. Serves him right. Whatever happens, the mage has only himself to blame. 

The apostate doesn't argue. Without further ado, he digs into his pack and Hawke has his blasted maps. They are all the same, selfish and self serving bastards willing to sacrifice others in order to achieve their own goals. Kaffas, he should have just helped the Templars. Filthy mages. 

All he can do is scowl and snarl another Tevene curse as Hawke thanks him. 

"I'm going to assume that means 'you're welcome'," he says. Again with that smirk. 

Amusement, that is everything Fenris will ever be to them. He ought to know better by this point.

***

Carver waits for his brother on the steps to Gamlen's house. He was supposed to be at the Hanged Man but Varric and Merrill were there alone. Neither of them had seen Garrett or the Rivaini, for that matter - an awkward coincidence to say the least. 

Mother asked about him, uncle made accusations, and the dog whined helplessly. Once their anger was spent, they had no qualms going to bed. Maybe they were just too tired to care anymore. Life in Lowtown has a way of wearing people out like that. He couldn't rest though, nor could he go searching aimlessly. Instead he sat there, outside, trying to maintain composure.

It's late at night when Garrett finally emerges from the street, limping and leaning on his staff for support. He looks ten years older, battered and bruised with blood soaking his shirt. For a moment he reminds Carver of father during that last year, ever more tired, ever more quiet, until he came back pale and coughing and wouldn't let them near.

Just as Garrett won't let him near now.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Carver spits stiffly, ever angrier as his brother winces away. How much of that blood is yours, he wants to ask, how dare you leave me behind, how could you be so reckless. Instead, he lends him a shoulder to lean on.

"I got the maps," says Garrett, unable to look him in the eye. "We're set. The expedition is a go and Bartrand can't turn us down anymore."

"That's great," nods Carver, heart in his throat. "Let's get you cleaned up. Can't have mother seeing you like this." 

Garrett doesn't argue. He's done the same with him before, more times than he can count. Halfway to the nearest well, his big brother laughs. 

"We got them," he says, "We'll fix things, finally. Gold, fame, and a place for mom. It's going to be alright, you'll see," he smiles, clapping him on arm.

But at what cost?

"Garrett, stop," he says. "Fuck the bloody expedition. You can't keep doing this."

"Doing what? Looking out for us?"

"Running off on your own, not telling anyone, putting yourself in danger. I can't fucking handle it and neither can mom."

"I'm doing it for both of you."

"And what good are you dead, eh? What good did it do Beth?"

He regrets saying it right away but the damage is done. It's out now, the ugly thing between them, that wound that won't heal, that refuses to go away no matter how hard they avoid looking at it. Garrett lets go, glaring like a cornered animal, and stumbles away, nearly falling. Carver can only sigh. The anger is gone, in it's wake only sorrow that feels like pressing smoldering ashes against his chest. 

He watched Beth go, valiant, like a storm, protecting them. He watched her standing in front of the ogre, so small, yet so defiant, starting to cast - one last spell, broken off. And all he can do now is watch Garrett squander what's left of himself for what he believes is his their good. 

Time and time again he's begged his brother to share in the responsibility, to no avail. They've fought over it for more than he can count. It's always been like this, a recurring theme of his youth. Father didn't trust him, Garrett didn't trust him, nobody ever does. 

"I'm sorry," he mutters, then stalks back to the house. 

And Garrett doesn't follow.


	12. Not Lost

Creators, so many people. The streets are bustling with all kinds of life. Even after a month and a half of living here in Kirkwall, she has yet to get used to all the humans, all the noises, all the smells. 

There is so much going on at the same time. A street peddler yelling the day's offer, a stray cat bounding down an alley, someone relieving themselves against a wall, a young pickpocket sneaking behind unsuspecting dockhands. Here the scent of fresh baked bread and not ten steps away, the foul odour of a dead rat. Is that fish? Ah, watch your step, that's a suspicious looking puddle. Ara seranna-ma! The human she just bumped into does not take it well. What if she smiles? No, that made it worse. Run.

He doesn't give chase, just yells a stream of curses at her back. Humans seem to do that a lot. Why is everyone so angry here? Maybe they slept badly. Or stepped on something when they got out of bed. Fact of the matter is nobody looks happy. 

People, humans, elves, and dwarves alike going about in every direction. More shouting. Stalls, all colour and filled to the brim with things - this must be the bazaar. Are those caged birds? Poor little things. Spices and leather, her nose tells her while her feet take her away. 

She's still hugging the unraveling ball of twine tightly to her chest, little left of it now. Rough grey hemp - was it always this colour or did it get dirty from use? Maybe she ought to give it a bath. 

Pay attention, she tells herself, use what Tamlen taught you. Moss? Creators but there seems to be no moss at all in Kirkwall. No halla tracks either. And all the streets look alike. Where are you now, lethallin? The Keeper moved on but she hasn't. Blood lotus and felandris, the way her eyes stung as she sketched them in her grimoire while he was mixing poison for his arrows, how she made up a whole interest in alchemy just to head out into the woods at his side. She dreams of him often, an echo of the Fade. Sometimes, the spirit takes his shape and they converse. It would be easy to be fooled but unlike the real Tamlen, the spirit never starts yawning halfway through her stories. One day it will guide her to him. 

There, it ran out. She's on her own. You can do this, Merrill. Just follow the road that goes up. That's why they call it Hightown, right?

She recognizes the large fortified gate and its black iron fangs hanging from the top, ready to close shut in a bite. The guards eye her strangely but nobody stops her. She sticks out here, barefoot in her plain green tunic, heads turning as she passes by them on the cobblestone streets. 

Hightown is pretty, clean, and quiet. Smells less of pee and more like horses and those cookies Varric buys her. The gardens here are beautiful, lush and fragrant and there's often a marble fountain spouting crystal clear water like a spring in their midst. This world belongs to the humans, the ones who carry themselves in silks and lace. What few elves she spots are servants running errands, their faces clean and unscarred. Most give her a wide berth, cross the street when she draws near, frightened by her vallaslin. 

How does Fenris get by in this place? Does he take the time to scowl at each of them in turn? It wouldn't hurt to check on him, even if it weren't a matter of duty. When Isabela dragged him into the Hanged Man the other night, he didn't seem too happy. Then again, she's yet to see Fenris do anything else other than frown and kill things. If only she could remember which house it was. Shemlen mansions all look the same, oppressive stone and ornate heraldry. 

There was an overgrown garden, she recalls, but that doesn't do much to narrow it down. If only she could ask someone. Hello, have you seen an angry elf with a big sword slouching about? At least that's what Hawke would do. 

That one looks about right. The ivy covered walls around it make it hard to tell though and with no gate in sight, she decides to climb in order to get a better view. 

"Looking for something, Daisy?" 

She nearly slips off of her perch at the familiarity of the voice and lets out a small yelp, clinging to the crumbling stone for purchase.

"Oh, hello there, Varric," she smiles, looking down at him. Thank the Creators, she is no longer lost. "The creepy house Fenris lives in."

"That's not it." His answer is quick and a little concerned.

"Oh. How did you know I was here?"

"One of the guards told me. There aren't that many Dalish frolicking around Hightown as you might have noticed," he chuckles.

"All this stone makes it hard."

She hops down and he catches her. 

"Ma serannas, lethallin. Are you alright?"

"I came here running," he admits. "A little out of shape, that's all."

They walk away, with Varric checking over his shoulder a couple of times until they turn some corners. He looks worried and sad, curling his lips into a smile the moment he meets her gaze. 

"Why look for Broody?"

"Because he's People."

"Ah, still upholding your title I see."

"Someone has to. Besides, he looks like he needs it."

"I think he'd beg to disagree."

"I have to try. He doesn't seem that bad, just hurt."

The city folk were usually like that. Pol was afraid of the dark night sky and Thelrana had never seen a halla before. They were bitter and mean at times, yet the Keeper welcomed them nonetheless. Just like them, Fenris too deserves a chance.

Varric smiles and he looks sad again. Even though a dwarf, he's her people too now, like Hawke or Aveline or Carver, so she asks about his day. 

"Cooped up with Bartrand at the Guild, arguing with suppliers. Boring shit, Daisy, I rather be gluing hair to a nug. When that guard came in and told me you were here, I left right away. Thanks for getting me out of there." The hand he offers is big and stained with ink but she takes it without a second thought. "Mind sparing Broody the visit today? I doubt he's in a good mood. I'll take you there some other time instead."

With that face, it would be hard to turn him down.

"Besides, we're celebrating tonight," he continues. "Hawke got the maps, so I'm buying the drinks."

"What does a nug with hair look like?" she asks, in spite of herself. The image is stuck in her head. 

"Fluffy, I guess. Reminds me of this one time a friend got drunk and caught one in his beard."

They laugh. He tells her stories the whole way. And the next time she looks up, they're at the Hanged Man.


	13. Social Call

_"Though all before me is shadow,_  
_Yet shall the Maker be my guide._  
_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._  
_For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light_  
_And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

_I am not alone. Even_  
_As I stumble on the path_  
_With my eyes closed, yet I see_  
_The Light is here."_

_-The Canticle of Trials-_

***

Was that a knock? 

Old houses have a way of going bump in the night. Sometimes it's the woodwork, other times it's demons. His master's estate in Minrathous had both, along with the occasional assassin. Fenris shambles to the entrance to check, a tad unsteady on his feet courtesy of the Agreggio in the cellar. Luckily, the mage was ignorant enough with regard to wines to keep his greedy nose out. 

It's not his imagination playing tricks though, there was indeed a knock. Fenhedis! He stubs his toes against an errant bit of furniture and the pain is nowhere near as as upsetting as the shame of being surprised by a table. This kind of fumbling would have cost him dearly before but nobody is watching anymore.

The rapping at the door continues and a wave of apprehension washes over him. Could it be a trap? Or worse, Hawke again. Neither him, nor the bounty hunters are in the habit of knocking though, so it's bound to be something else.

The last person he expects is the Captain herself, standing in the pouring rain outside, just as imposing without her heavy armour, even as the freckled bulk of her bare arms cradle her shivering body. Fenris takes a step back and motions her in, determined to appear far less drunk than he feels. 

Soaked through but smiling, she lays down her pack and smooths the wiry red mess of her braids. Water drips off her shield, trailing against the lines in Kirkwall's crest. He'd offer her a blanket if he had one, anything other than the moth eaten rag he curls under at night. 

"Fenris," she says, so kindly it hurts, "are you alright?"

He fumbles for an explanation. Why does she have to look at him like that? It's not even pity but something far worse: compassion, too much of it to bear. Fenris turns his back, leads her to the nook where he sleeps, throwing a couple of furniture scraps in the fireplace. What few belongings he has are strewn across the room along with a couple of empty bottles and the shards of broken ones. The only thing that looks cared for is the greatsword propped against the wall but he has little concern for appearances right now. She's probably cold and he's a terrible host - he tries to say as he struggles to start a fire.

"Move over, i'll do it," she tells him, laying a hand on his shoulder. 

The touch makes Fenris reel back violently and they trip over each other's apologies. He tries to explain: the pain, the aversion, the scars of his past. Peals of thunder reach them from outside, echoing the beat of his heart in his ears. Aveline listens, kneeling by the hearth while she lights the kindling. Soon enough, the warm glow of the flames eases the gloom around them.

"How much have you been drinking?" She gives him his space but doesn't relent. "Don't lie, it's fairly obvious."

He lost count but if he were to be honest, not enough.

"Why are you here, Captain? Do you take an interest in all your men so?"

"When I have to," she is quick to reply, "and especially when the men in cause are my friends."

Friends? He'd care to disagree but thinks better about it. The Captain has done more than enough, given the circumstances and the last thing she deserves is to be antagonized by an ungrateful wretch. Fenris allows himself to slide onto the floor with his back against the bed. This isn't just a social call, no matter how casual she tries to sound. Nobody is ever kind without a purpose. He sees it in the way she furrows her brow while digging through her pack.

"What happened at the Chantry, Fenris?"

There it is. His gaze slips to his sword out of reflex, counting the steps it would take to reach it but there is no need. Aveline sits by the fire and lets her broad shoulders drop. The wood hisses and cracks, filling their silence. Fenris ponders what to tell her and settles for the truth.

"I was afraid that might have been the case," she says when he is done. "Maker damn it, Hawke!"

They talk over the dinner she brought with her, cold cuts, cheese, a few tomatoes, and some bread. It's almost a comforting feeling. Food only becomes a concern when it's lacking and it's easy to forget the difference a nice meal makes when there are more dire things to worry about. 

"There's something I don't understand," he says. "If Hawke is such a problem, then why are you letting him run loose? As Captain of the guard, you could have him arrested, or better yet, sent to the Circle."

Aveline sighs.

"I couldn't do that to Leandra. She's already lost a child."

He raises an eyebrow. This is new.

"There used to be three of them," she says, "if you can imagine that. Wesley and I ran into them back in Ferelden." Taking note of his increasing confusion, she goes on: "He was my husband."

"Her name was Bethany. She and Carver were the same age, twins if I recall, but she was nothing like him, mind you, more like Garrett perhaps - except, well, nice." 

"What happened?"

"The Blight," shrugs Aveline. "She was killed by an ogre. My husband died the same day."

There is a flicker of pain in her expression. 

***

She thinks back to that day, little over a year ago, when she was still a Templar's wife and ran into the Hawkes.

Ostagar had been a slaughter. There was nothing to be done but to retreat. She remembers the fighting, the dying cries of those caught in the onslaught of the horde, hoping for the reinforcements that would never come. Wesley wasn't feeling well and was growing sicker by the hour, yet they pressed onwards for as long as they could. 

They found themselves ambushed, so many darkspawn she'd lost count. Wesley and her fought back to back, holding them at bay as best as they could but more just kept coming. Sinister creatures, ruthless and savage. They were overwhelmed. Wesley collapsed, begged her to run and leave him behind but she wouldn't do it. There was no point.

Aveline made her peace with the Maker and stopped thinking. She just fought, swinging and blocking, left and right. A genlock's arrow broke against her shield. Their inhuman cries made her heart quiver. A hurlock charged and knocked her over, the impact forcing all breath out her lungs. It was about to split her head open with a mean looking axe. She shut her eyes but the blow never came. When she opened them again, fire was raining from above.The hurlock in front of her was frozen solid mid swing, shattering as a young warrior joined the fray. Together, they helped Wesley to his feet and ran for cover. The storm of his siblings's spells raged on and the darkspawn scattered, falling to lighting, ice, and flame.

"64, 65, 66. I win, brother!" shouted a woman.

"Not fair, those last ten were mine, so it's a tie," retorted the other mage. "How many did you get, Carver?"

"For the last time, I'm not playing your stupid game!" 

Bethany dropped the barrier, the air crackling with magic, and approached them. Hawke trailed behind her, keeping his distance, staff still in hand. All of the Circle mages had pulled out along with Loghain's forces, but these weren't ordinary apostates either. They fought too well together. 

"Well, the Maker has a sense of humor," she said. 

***

They agreed to let her and Wesley tag along, even though he could barely stand. By then it was clear he was dying. They made camp for the night. Hawke lit the fire with a flick of his fingers, partly to make a point but otherwise stayed away. The twins, on the other hand, came to check on them.

"There's no cure for the Blight," Bethany told her, even though she knew. "But I can make him more comfortable."

"Begone," coughed Wesley.

"Yes, Beth, let the Templar suffer in peace," yelled Hawke. "Wouldn't want the Maker to think he went easy on us."

Despite the hostilities, Bethany remained calm. And kind. 

"The darkspawn don't care who we are and neither should you," she said. She went on to talk about their father's death and their family, told them how Hawke had been the one to care for them for the past three years. "Garrett's just trying to keep us safe, he means no harm."

"Yeah, I do," he interceded, for argument's sake more than anything. 

"No, you don't," she yelled back.

"Do."

"Not."

They laughed. Carver wasn't taking it as lightly as them but he seemed nice enough. His questions about the Order were what gave Wesley some comfort until they fell asleep. 

***

"I will never forget Leandra's cry when they came back. It was - heartrending. We all knew right away. Hawke was the one to carry her back. He was still in shock." Aveline pauses, inhaling. "Leandra lashed out at him without a second thought. It was unfair but all I could do was watch."

Fenris offers her the bottle and she no longer shakes her head but accepts it. 

"Wesley died soon after," she says after a draught. "We buried them in the same spot. She was right, Templar or mage, death doesn't care."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she nods. "Carver sat and prayed with me. We kept in touch." There is another pause, before she goes on: "I know I complain a lot about Hawke but both of them are good men. They're just - well - losing their way. I wish I could help but I can't get through. Carver's handling it better but Hawke? He still hasn't spoken of it to anyone ever since, not to me, not even to Varric. I asked Merrill about it too and she had no idea. Now this happens."

"That doesn't justify his actions."

"No, it doesn't."

"But, let me guess, you won't do anything about it because of that. I've told you before, you're far too kind, Captain."

He closes his eyes and gives in to the wine, resting his head on the edge of the bed. 

"Maybe I am," he hears her say, before he drifts to sleep.


	14. The Gallows

"Is it wise for you to be here?" asks Fenris, doing a quick headcount of the Templars patrolling the place.

As if 'wise' were a word that could ever apply to anything Hawke does. And yet this still isn't the worst decision he's made in the past couple of days. When the mage showed up on his doorstep again, he had half a mind drag him here himself. 

"I don't expect you to get involved," Hawke told him then, "I just want information concerning these people. The same things you've given Aveline. The rest does not concern you."

But of course it did. They were talking about slavers, after all. The more tight lipped Hawke acted, the clearer it became he had to get involved. Not only were they in over their heads, but the idiot was bound to get himself, if not others, captured. He thought of the Dalish witch and the foolish trust she put in this man. His younger brother, more naive still, that would follow them into the trap. 

He caved, though he had to admit, giving those bastards what was due felt good. They were preying on the vulnerable, as usual, although he wasn't used to thinking of apostates as such. Hawke, on the other hand, was noticeably upset. 

"This is the shit we have to live with," he exclaimed over the young woman's body, disfigured by corruption.

"When it's demons or danger, mages will always be weak and choose the former."

"Don't fucking start," Hawke sternly cut him off. 

"Leave it, Broody," said Varric. "No point in arguing over what happened here."

His bitterness was getting the better of him again but he failed to understand. Hawke might have been reckless but it was hard to imagine him being a victim when he could swing that staff and send a room full of armed men scrambling in panic. 

***

But Garrett knows that has not always been the case. 

Magic could only get you so far, provided it was even an option. He grew up painfully aware of that. It could kindle a fire no matter how damp the wood but it couldn't split the logs or haul them into storage. It could bring rain during a drought but it couldn't guarantee a good harvest. It could heal Carver's broken arm after falling from the oak near the farm but it couldn't save father. Magic did not put food on the table or make ends meet, Garrett did that.

Lothering was small and poor, yet there was always work to be found. He'd fed druffalo and herded sheep, tilled and sowed, dug for potatoes, fixed roofs. The Chanter's Board sometimes offered rewards for the odd bear and bandit but Garrett was no fighter. Had their lives been any different, he would have never picked up a weapon by choice. The Maker, however, had other plans.

It was a bitter day in autumn, only a few months after father's death. Garrett had been chopping wood at Barlin's farm, returning home with aching arms and a few silvers, when he ran into a group of young men from the village. Some, like Wilk or Cobbs, he knew but others he could only recognize by looks. They gathered round him, cutting off the path. 

"Where are ye going, mage?" said one of them.

"Ye can fool them Templars but ye can't fool us," spat another.

"Heard the Chantry pays for dealing with apostates."

Garrett froze. This wasn't just a brawl, nor had anyone ever confronted him so openly about his power. There were far too many of them. He thought - no, he knew - he had been cautious enough. Had they been certain of it, they would have called the Templars instead of cornering him like this. He knew them all for cowards. 

Before he realized it, he was on the ground, taking hits. A boot caught him square in the ribs, the first of many. He wanted to cast but had to stop himself - one spell and it would have been over, he'd have to go on the run, abandon his family and hide. Demons of rage whispered in his ears, telling him to give in. The world was a blur, all blows and noise. Here a sharp jab in the gut, there a numbing flare across his face, yet still he would not cast.

Then they all stopped. He heard a familiar shout and opened one of his eyes to see Carver pummeling the tallest of the lot with his fists. The others made a few attempts to tear him off only to be swiftly knocked back. He might have been almost sixteen but he'd been training for this. Soon enough, they scattered.

"Don't ever touch my family again," he cried out, while they scampered away, "Or I'll kill you next time."

Garrett was a mess but still alive. Carver helped him home. It was evening when they got there. Mother nearly fainted and he realized then they'd robbed him of his coin. 

Beth found him crying on his bed, all bruised and black eyed, drowning in his own defeat. With father gone, there was no one left to keep them safe. She offered to heal him but he wouldn't let her for fear that of the villagers might say. 

"There, there," she soothed, wiping away dried blood and tears, "you did the right thing, Garrett. Father would be proud. It takes a lot of strength to hold back like that."

"But the coin," he trailed off. In front of her, he could be weak, he could be scared. Beth didn't judge. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said. "We'll figure it out."

They did. From that day on, he swallowed his pride and let Carver teach him how to fight. 

***

Hawke hands Ser Thrask the letter and doesn't even ask for gold. No jokes made in poor taste either - it's almost unsettling. Weakness and corruption, Fenris scoffs.

They are about to leave when someone shouts:

"I know that guy," points the thug, "he's an apostate!"

His friends gather nearby.

"Yeah, the blighted dog lord, I remember him," yells another. "Torched one of my boats!"

"Mage! Mage!" 

They've drawn attention already but no one makes a move. The Templars observe from their stations, intent on not aiding either side. One stray spell and that is bound to change. Three men come their way, unarmed but for a few daggers at best, yet intent on sparking an incident - which is far from strange considering how many people Hawke must offend on a daily basis.

Carver reaches for his sword and Fenris wonders whether he should do the same. The mabari snarls, ready to jump. Hawke, however, takes a step ahead and motions them to wait, not without glancing at him with a smirk that spells mischief.

"My good man, it seems you are mistaken," Hawke tells the one leading them. "I am no mage."

"Oh, really? What's that staff for then?"

"This?" Hawke says innocently, drawing it off his back and holding it tentatively with both hands. "I can show you what it's for."

Fenris sees the Templars shifting. A couple of them might even know. No way Hawke could talk or bribe his way out of this, should they step in. The thug takes a stab at him but before anyone can react, the mage dodges and whacks him with the barbed end of his staff. Another step and he swings again, knocking the legs under him. With a quick twist, the mean looking blade at the other end is now at the man's throat. 

"See? It's great for keeping violent fools at a distance _and_ it goes well with the beard. Isn't that neat?"

Carver moves to his side, blade drawn. 

"Don't fuck with us."

The men don't need to be told twice. They gather their fallen buddy and scramble away as fast as they came. 

"You'll pay for this," they shout.

"Send me the bill," Hawke yells after them. 

He turns to Fenris, slinging his staff across his back and grinning like an idiot.

"Could a Magister do that?" he asks smugly.

Fenris rolls his eyes. 

"Is that all you've gleaned from our earlier conversation?"

He shrugs. 

"Admit it, that was kind of cool. No magic," he says, palms in the air.

"No brains either," scoffs the elf, stalking off.

Although the answer would be no, a Magister wouldn't do that. 


	15. Ceasefire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I will be forgiven this mild canon deviation: moving the book scene from Act 2 to Act 1, as well as tweaking it a bit because it makes more sense plot-wise for this fic.

"Don't yell at the clouds to spite the rain!"

Garrett is giving the mabari a scrub when the perfect retort comes to him. Unfortunately, their argument took place over a week ago and Fenris hasn't spoken to him ever since, likely still furious they'd sent Feynriel off to the Dalish.

"You aren't rain, Hawke, you're a damned storm!" says the glowy little elf in his imagination. Yes, a storm, with thunder and lightning and all the other stormy things. He ought to stop, this isn't good for him, replaying that conversation over and over again until it gets frayed at the edges, his sanity along with it.

The dog looks up at him and whines. "Sorry, boy," he mutters, continuing to scrub, old khaddis and dirt and fur clumping onto the brush. "He just gets to me, I don't know why." If he sighs one more time, a desire demon is bound to appear - and it wouldn't even be the first time. Over the past month, he's woken up a mess twice, the image of meandering lyrium lines across dark skin still vivid in his mind. Garrett needs to do something, lest he never sleep again.

***

The bazaar is as loud as ever as he strolls between the stalls. People move aside at sight of the wardog trailing behind him and would be thieves think twice, his pockets not worth the trouble. Dyed cloth and shiny trinkets slide under his gaze on one side, steel and leather on the other, followed by a herbalist peddling poultices and not two steps away, a woman selling sweets. The marketplace in Denerim had never held such colour, though the chances of finding a shiv between one's ribs were marginally lower. Which of those he prefers, Garrett cannot say.

The table stacked with tomes is no less enticing than the rest and he chuckles to himself as he spots Varric's latest installment of Hard in Hightown bound in nugskin with the dwarven press' crest embossed on the cover. Next to it, an Orlesian treatise on plants lies wedged between a theological commentary of the Chant and a booklet of Antivan poetry. Garrett runs his fingers across a roll of blank vellum, rough and brownish, telling himself he has no one to write letters to. Behind a yellowed beard, the merchant makes small talk in a hoarse Marcher whisper.

Garrett browses absently, as they talk about the rumours of a dragon cult in the Frostbacks, when he comes across the copy of a Book of Shartan, plain but maintained.

"Ahem, I have a scroll of Banastor," murmurs the merchant, leaning in closer, "should Messere be interested."

The mage knits his brow, snapping the book shut.

"Sorry, I'm not looking for cookbooks," he says, tapping a finger against the spine, "but I'll take this instead."

***

"Away with you," he tells the mage standing sheepishly by the stairs. "We have nothing to discuss."

The mabari's panting echoes through the hall, it's pink tongue lolling out and it's dark beady eyes following him intently as he approaches.

"Hear me out," starts Hawke.

"No."

"We've had our differences -"

"That is an understatement."

"Yes," attempts the mage, drawing a quick intake of breath, "but -"

"What is it this time?" He already regrets asking.

Hawke grins tentatively, extending a hand.

"Peace offering," he says.

Surely there is more to follow, the elf muses, taking the book. Their fingers do not meet yet the distance between them closes. Despite himself, frustration forces out an admission of his misgivings and he reels back bracing himself for barage of mockery that never comes. Instead, the mage assumes that tame demeanor Fenris will not mistake for kindness. Want, on the other hand, he can understand, a drive he's taught himself to recognize, like the gaps in an enemy's defenses, a useful thing to know if one wishes to stay alive. Not that Hawke makes any particular secret of it, wooing and flattering in his blunt Southern way.

Somewhat charming? Perhaps, yet he's proven unworthy of trust on several accounts and to fan such flames could mean danger. There is always a chance he might be wrong, as well. Hawke has been known to do that with everyone, his flirtatious remarks spilling as naturally as his ill-timed quips. Instinct, however, tells him otherwise.

***

When Hawke comes with his offer to teach him how to read, Fenris first thinks he's joking - a rather distasteful jest at that, even for him. However, the following day he finds the mage back at his door, armed with vellum, ink, and an excited grin on his face.

The mabari rushes up to him as they settle at the table.

"No," Hawke tells it, "we talked about this. Down!"

"It's alright," says Fenris, stroking the soft fur behind its ears. "I don't mind."

"Careful, he's clingy, this one. Humour him once and you'll never get him off your back."

The elf cannot contain a quick chuckle, one corner of his mouth hitching up as the wardog slinks on its back, demanding to have its belly scratched.

"Shameless, too," scoffs Hawke.

"Reminds me of someone," he replies evenly, glancing at the mage, rather pleased with his almost imperceptible fluster.

As they begin, Fenris notices the rather alarming lack of condescension in Hawke's manner, equaled only by the even more unsettling patience with which he draws each mark or letter and explains its function. The lesson is brief but enough to give him pause. The task ahead seems unassailable.

"How is one expected to remember all this?"

"It doesn't happen overnight," Hawke tells him with a smile. "But we have time."


	16. Miscommunication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandatory beach episode.

Aveline arrives in a clatter of armour, breathing heavily and braced for a fight, yet the only creatures to respond to her entrance are the fat seagulls that scatter in a commotion of cries and flapping wings. The Wounded Coast is a long stretch like a gash in Kirkwall's side. The outline of the elf slumped by some big rocks ahead however tells her she is in the right place.

"Where is he? What's going on? Who are we fighting?" She asks, all in one breath, when she reaches him.

Fenris raises an eyebrow, then points a sharp gauntlet at the beach. He isn't hurt, just somewhat drunk, judging from the bottle he's holding rather fondly in his lap. One glance towards the beach and she can guess why. Their laughter echoes over the clamour of the waves.

"Unbelievable," Aveline mutters to herself, feeling the blood rushing to her cheeks at the sight of the Rivaini's unabashed flaunting of her Maker given gifts.

"Let me guess," says the elf, "You were lured here under the same false pretenses as I was."

"Important business," she replies, averting her eyes and waving a scrap of paper in her hand, "need you on the Coast."

Fenris nods. A larger wave knocks over the Dalish mage - thankfully still in possession of her smalls - and she goes under with a shrill cry. Carver wades to her rescue, while Hawke and the Rivaini are engaged in a vicious splashing competition. On the beach, the mabari barks and bounds playfully, spraying sand from under its massive paws. When he sees her, the mage waves and makes his way towards the shore. At least he's kept his breeches.

Varric slides down from a nearby ledge and approaches them as well, stumbling through the sand.

"That makes ten silvers," Hawke shouts in his direction.

"Oh, you didn't," Aveline shouts back.

"They did," remarks Fenris.

"Honestly Hawke, I don't know how you pulled it off," says the dwarf, "this is the real magic right here."

"As usual, you're the only one with an eye for my talents, Varric."

"Move aside," snarls the elf, "you're dripping."

In response, Hawke shakes his head like a dog, laughing against the stream of Tevene curses that ensue. A steel gloved fist cuts short his mirth, dangerously close to his face. Aveline is not amused.

"This is your emergency?"

"I never said it was," he says, feigning innocence. "The note only mentioned business."

"Pray tell then, what is this business of yours?"

Varric snorts, a knowing look on his face, and the two of them share a snicker.

"Watch it, Tethras," she threatens, "Wasting the Guard's time is a felony."

"Pfft, if you're gonna bring him in, might as well come up with some better charges. Besides, since when is having fun a crime?"

"Fun? You call this fun?"

In the background, Carver yells at a cackling topless Isabela that has run away with his smalls.

"Yes, Aveline," says Hawke, "I know this is difficult for you to understand but it's that thing people do to feel better."

"I was doing fine," she mutters through her teeth, "until a certain someone dragged me out here."

"You're welcome," he retorts.

Varric has to step between them to prevent a fight.

"Now, now, Captain," the dwarf chimes in, palms up in the air, "What Chuckles is trying to say is that you wouldn't consider taking any time off for yourself, would you?" His attempts are only met with a glare but he goes on, just as conciliatory: "Look around for a bit, it's all peaceful for once. No Qunari or Tal-Vashoth or whatever, no bandits or smugglers, and the weather's nice too."

"Even Fenris is enjoying himself," adds the mage.

"Ugh," scoffs the elf, taking another drink.

Aveline looks each of them over and exhales, letting her shoulders drop.

"I'll let it slide," she concedes, "this time."

***

Merrill screams, splashing about in an attempt to move away.

"Something touched my leg!"

"Carver!" sneers Isabela accusingly.

"I didn't!"

"Oh no," whimpers the Dalish, "I think it was a jellyfish or something. Are jellyfish real fish?"

"I don't know," says the Rivaini, "they're really pretty though."

"From a ship, I can imagine." She runs her fingers through the water, squinting to see past its surface with little success. "Ah! There it goes again. Oh, it's just sea-weed," she adds, fishing out a dripping reddish clump between her fingers.

Carver cups her narrow shoulders in his hands.

"You're shaking," he says, awestruck at how small they are. Her skin is so smooth and cool to the touch, adorned in dark tattoos like the ones on her face.

She turns her head to look at him with a smile that might make him drown. An incoming wave nearly knocks her over again but he holds her fast. A little earlier, she'd risen from the water, frowned at the sea, and cast a barrier to calm the area around them. The sea was stronger though, too restless for her magic.

Fortunately, Isabela stalks away to pester Garrett instead, and he overhears them plotting ways of getting Fenris out his armour, each one dumber than the other.

Merrill is quiet, staring at the horizon. He would very much like to kiss her, he realizes, unable to look away from those eyes that are almost the same tinge of green as the glittering expanse behind her.

"Are you alright, Carver?" he hears her say.

"What? Me? Yes, great, perfect."

"Your mouth was open. And you're so tall a bird might fly in. Not that it's a bad thing - for you, not the bird - being tall, I mean, for a human. Oh, I'm rambling."

Before he can say anything, the next wave knocks her right into his arms, along with a mouthful of saltwater. Out of instinct, he pulls her close so she doesn't fall, and for a brief moment, her tiny body is pressed against his, clinging onto him like a castaway.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to," he blurts out, letting go of her, "the wave and all -"

His heart is smashing hard against his chest, the shape of her still fresh in his skin's memory. Breathe, he tries to tell himself. Merrill cocks her head questioningly, and the longer her silence, the more he wants to dive into the deep and never come back.

"Oh, I didn't mind. It felt rather nice. There's worse things that can grab you in the water." She pauses, trying to read the mortified shift in his expression. "Like sea-monsters I mean, which you are not at all alike."

He wishes one could swallow him right now.

"I shouldn't have said that, should I?" she adds quietly, frowning.

"No, no, no, it's fine," he fumbles. "I liked it too, if that's alright. You can cling to me anytime." As soons as the words leave his mouth, it dawns on him just how uninspired they are. "Not in that sense!"

"You mean like, in the dirty sense?"

"Yes. No, Maker, no, not like that."

"Oh," she looks away.

Wait, is she disappointed? Carver doesn't have time to think. As soons as a new wave approaches, he feels two hands grabbing the seat of his pants and pulling down. The shock causes him to lose his balance, along with his smalls. Not far off, Isabela breaks the surface with a menacingly victorious grin on her face.

***

"Nice flag you got there," says Hawke, pointing to the underwear she's hoisted onto a piece of driftwood.

"You should see the flagpost I snatched it from," smirks Isabela. "By the way, you're next," she warns Fenris.

"I would strongly advise against it," says the elf.

"Yeah, Isabela," Hawke adds with mock outrage, "stealing is bad."

"Like your idea was any better," she scoffs, "where would you even hope to find a small octopus?"

"I thought we settled for a crab."

"Whatever it is the two of you are arguing about, I do not wish to know."

"Seconded," says Aveline, grateful at least that the Rivaini has finally covered herself. "Why are we here again?"

"Treasure," beams Hawke. " Captain Isabela, lead the way!"

"Aye, let's seize the booty then!"


	17. First Impressions

"Remember that Qunari back in Lothering?" 

Carver's prodding does little to set him at ease. That Garrett does remember is bad enough - how could he forget the serenity with which that beast confessed to murder - but the thought of walking into that walled-off compound full of them makes him thoroughly nervous. 

"Uh-huh." He tries to put on a confident air, stretching his back, hands behind his head to hide how fidgety he is. Not as easily fooled as the rest, the mabari prances around him and barks. Garrett smiles, despite it all - canine encouragement never fails.

"You and Dog wait here," he tells Carver when they reach the entrance.

"What?" The young man cries. "Why?"

"Shh, keep it down," mutters Garrett, pulling him away from the others. "Because if anything goes wrong in there, I need someone to break me out."

"Me?" whispers Carver. "What am I supposed to do in that situation?"

"I don't know, go get Aveline?"

"Right," he nods. 

The Qunari guard at the gate doesn't seem to pay them any mind but Garrett can't shake off the image of the Tal-Vashoth mage they'd killed, the hacked off horns, the mouth sewn shut, the collar and the chains. If they can do that to their own kind, what would they to him? All this time he thought the Chantry was bad but of course there's always room for worse. 

"Are you two done over there?" Yells Javaris. "I'd very much like to get this over with."

"Coming," he snaps, "Hold your horses."

"Sod off, mage."

Ah, don't say that around here. Maker, he wants to punch this dwarf. If the Qunari hear him, they give no sign but even so, it's like the air itself is charged with animosity, their seemingly indifferent gazes fixed on them like just as many spears. They are supposed to be reasonable people, right?

The Arishok is the scariest bastard he's seen since the ogre, a mountain of sculpted muscle and barely contained disgust. Garrett would rather just bolt. Sorry for bothering you, nice fortress you got here, we'll show ourselves out. Tell mother I love her, he mentally asks Carver, and look after Dog. 

Much to everyone's surprise, Fenris steps up, speaking confidently in that language they've only heard snippets of before coming here. With great difficulty, Garrett fights off the urge to stare at him in bewilderment, as he navigates the treacherous waters of Qunari custom with the grace of a diplomat. _Anaan esaam Qun_. That's all he recognizes, the same phrase the caged Qunari would repeat over and over again whenever someone happened to pass by, like some grim catchphrase. 

Even the Arishok is impressed with the elf's words. See? Common ground. We'll get along fine. Let's just grab some drinks at the Hanged Man and have an educated discussion about how velvety his voice sounds regardless of the language - although, if Garrett were to pick, Tevene dirty talk is his personal favourite. 

Or maybe not. 

Their negotiations are breaking down fast. 

"I was promised payment," he hears himself saying, fear well disguised as anger. 

It seems to go better than he expected because soon enough he leaves the compound, baffled yet unmolested, weighing a bag of coin in his palm. Fuck you too, Javaris, it was nice doing business with you. 

"You did well back there," says that beautiful voice, which probably translates as 'thanks for shutting up long enough so that I could save our asses.' 

Even so, it's enough to make Garrett square his shoulders, fold his arms, and put on his most confident smirk. 

Of course that was his plan all along.

"I never would have suspected you were so well versed in Qunlat." 

Kind of endearing really, to be so clever and not know how to read. He suddenly feels rather smug about their lessons. 

The elf seems fairly content with himself in turn. 

"You'll be surprised to find I'm well versed in many things," he throws, so casually Garrett can't stifle the thoughts racing through his head.

Under the khaddis, he feels his cheeks burning. A well versed bastard, indeed.


	18. Curiosities

Staring. More staring. Fenris can feel those eyes all over him. He can't decide which is worse, the relentless questions or the ogling. That's it, one more word and he's pushing her off the next ledge when no one's looking. 

"Kaffas, woman!" he snaps when he catches her mere inches away of his face. "What is it now?"

"Ara seranna-ma," blurts Merrill, "I just wanted to get a better look at your vallaslin."

"For the last time, this is not vallaslin."

"Not in the Dalish sense, no."

"Then why do you persist?"

"Because it is similar, at least in design. Figuring out what it represents might give us an idea of what happened to you."

"The only thing is represents is the folly of a madman."

"That may be true but it does not mean that is all there is to it. If I could just take a look at the rest of them -"

"Absolutely not," he yells, his voice echoing down the mountain path. 

"Daisy, we talked about this," intervenes Varric, wheezing from the effort. 

"Do you even know our gods, Fenris?" she yells back, ignoring the dwarf.

"Enough to understand they do not care."

"Yet that is what vallaslin is, a mark of respect for the Creators. How can you say that when yours truly grants you power? How can you not wish to learn more?"

"I have learned enough and all of it against my will!" 

Rage turns his markings bright. Mage and dwarf both rush between them but the Dalish stands proud and faces him. Instead of a retort, however, her gaze softens as she tells him:

"Ir abelas, lethallin."

There is silence, for a stretch, a brief one at that, until they agree to stop for a rest. Better said, until the dwarf has had enough and they decide humor him, catching their breath on a narrow plateau. One look is enough to convince him to find another spot, lest he fall prey to her scrutiny once more, and that he does, a little further up where he removes his sword and flops himself unceremoniously onto a patch of grass. From this side, Fenris can see the city and Kirkwall seems almost inviting at a distance. It's strange, glancing over his shoulder without having to run away from something, stranger still to know he is not alone. 

"Enjoying the view?" Hawke sits beside him, uninvited, yet not too close. "I know I am."

The mabari curls up next to him with an appropriately resigned sigh. If he had a silver for every bad pick-up line the mage spewed at him since they met, he could probably buy himself a crateful of Aggregio by now. 

"I know how much you like company, so I decided to entertain you my irresistible wit," says the mage sarcastically.

The delivery earns him a snort.

"Am I so transparent?"

"Only at times."

Fenris won't look at him, even though the view is indeed nice enough for him to not regret coming, at least as far as the Free Marches go. If he were to guess, he'd say the mage is probably smirking anyway. 

"I'm sorry about Merrill." Hawke's tone is uncharacteristically serious. "I hope you didn't take it the wrong way."

"And what is the right way, pray tell?"

He hears the mage fidgeting before coming up with an answer.

"Genuine interest, you're one of her people."

"That I am not."

"Not in your own eyes but in hers. She might have left her clan but she has not stopped being the First."

"And how does that concern me?"

"She wants to help."

"She can't. I'm not some lost halla or misguided child."

"Not like that. For all your scorn towards the Dalish, you're not half as ignorant to their ways as you try to appear."

"Oh, yes, the last of Elvhenan, how could we fare without them? Somebody forgot to tell the elves in the Imperium."

But of course this isn't about the Dalish, or vallaslin, or the Creators. Hawke's hesitation merely serves to confirm it.

"She's a blood mage with a morbid curiosity for my master's endeavors, conveniently disguised as an interest in vaguely elven markings. Vallaslin," Fenris spits, "as if the practice on its own weren't barbaric enough. I don't know what angers me more, the parallel or her audacity."

As if the ordeal Danarius put him through could be compared to a Dalish coming of age, as if those savages could ever comprehend what he had to endure for that power. Worst of all was how grateful everyone expected him to be, as if combat prowess could justify all that suffering and make it right. 

Hawke, however, is not convinced.

"I think you give this alleged curiosity of hers too much credit."

"Just because you are blind to it does not mean it isn't there. All I hope is that your ignorance is as not wilful as it seems."

"Wait, how come Merrill is supposed to be the evil one but i'm somehow exempt from these suspicions of yours?"

"I never said you were. Although, from what I've seen so far, it's doubtful you could harbor such interests."

"Oh, care to expand?"

In spite of his rekindled anger, Fenris can't help but grin.

"Hawke, you're not exactly the best example of a power starved scholar."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"How much did you actually study, if at all?"

"Enough to not be a danger to myself or to others."

"Do you hold congress with demons to satisfy your curiosities?"

"No, my curiosities are fine the way they are."

"You don't even carry a grimoire, do you?"

"No, not really," he mutters thoughtfully. "Wait, are you saying I'm not educated enough to pose a threat?"

 _I'm saying you wouldn't recognize a maleficarum's intentions even if they painted you a picture with your own blood._ He doesn't pursue the matter further. Hawke would sooner jump of this cliff than admit his puppy eyed Dalish witch is dangerous. 

"We should make haste," Fenris tells him, getting up. 


	19. Little Brothers

"You worry too much, Junior." Trade manifests have never been his go-to pastime but Bartrand's a whole lot busier of late. Without looking up, he crosses off a couple of items from the list. "Trust me, I've been a younger brother for longer than you."

Carver sets the crates atop a stack and straightens his back with a satisfying crack. The preparations are coming along nicely - perhaps a little too nice now that they have the maps and most of the coin. Having them haul the supplies themselves is Bartrand's idea of trimming the fat, except Junior's usually the only one to show up. Hawke, of course, must have found something better to do.

"He sassed the Knight Captain, Varric."

"Well, ser Cullen wasn't being exactly courteous himself but I agree, it wasn't the smartest thing he did."

"Nor the dumbest either. Remember that fight he picked with Fenris? I swear, he's ten times worse around that guy, no sense of danger whatsoever."

"Broody's got a temper but he's not gonna kill the person who saved him. I think." One of these days those two are going to have at it for real and someone'll get hurt. "Besides, Chuckles did the right thing. Mages or not, nobody wants a cave full of dead kids, least of all, ser Thrask."

"What about that ser Keran?" Junior folds his arms. "Thanks to Garrett, he now knows Merrill's an apostate."

"And he's conveniently in our debt." He makes a mental note to add some more eyes in the alienage, a couple of swords as well. "Believe me, if anyone tries to hurt Daisy, they're up for a blind date with Bianca." 

No point telling him how close she came to Broody's spiked gauntlets, that sort of negativity won't help anyone. Andraste bless her little heart, she's just trying to be kind. If anything were to happen to her while they were gone - no, he'll make sure nothing does. No matter what they do down in the Deep Roads, Daisy will be here waiting for them. 

I wish I could tie one end of that twine to myself, he muses. Maybe he already did, the moment he gave it to her, a string that leads from heart to heart, so neither would get lost.

"It's getting harder and harder to forgive him, Varric," Carver exhales. Despite being one of the tallest humans around, he looks younger than ever. "I hate it," he says, "Having to follow him around like this, always trapped in his shadow. I should have stayed with the Red Iron, even if he left - make a name for myself and provide for our family."

Here we go again. If one could run a business on whining and 'what if's', Carver would be a rich man. No wonder Hawke keeps running off on his own, this is what he has to come home to every night. That and the few ugly remarks he's heard Leandra throw at her own son make him feel sorry for the guy. 

Even so, the feeling isn't that foreign to him, though Varric would like to think he's handling it better. He too was once that kid and in his case, shadows were taller here on the surface. It ain't easy, staring at a distorted reflection of your past but he's made his peace with it long ago. 

"Don't look at me," he says, a dash pricklier than he'd hoped, "I'm here for Bartrand's sake, so I'm a bad example. You wanna get in trouble of your own, go ahead."

"Can't be worse than babysitting an apostate."

And yet he never leaves. Big words for a big guy with a very short will. When push comes to shove, this is all it ever is: talk. 

"Say what you want but you can't fault him for standing his ground."

"Is that what it looks like to you? Because to me it seems an awful lot like he's just aching for someone to put him in his place."

"And you think you're that person?"

"If only," Carver laughs, a bitter chuckle. At least he doesn't notice the annoyance he's causing. "One more stunt like that though and the Knight Captain might grant him his wish."

"Whatever you say, _Junior_."

Back to the trade manifest then, he'd rather read inventories than listen to this crap. Carver takes the hint and stamps away. There's plenty of work and little left to say but whatever may arise, it can wait for the Hanged Man. 


	20. Through the Cracks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day because I've been a bit slow lately. Hope you enjoy!

On his second visit, Hawke brings a sand tablet and traces simple words. It's easier to remember the letters that way, he claims.

"Being sober tends to help as well," the mage jokes, yet does not refuse a glass of wine, making a face as he takes a sip. "Acquired taste, isn't it?"

Fenris wouldn't expect him to know. He'd rather forget the first time he tasted it himself.

"Not to your liking, I take it."

"Fruity with a dash of bitter?" He flashes a roguish grin. "I could get used to it."

The lesson proceeds with the same patience as the previous one. Under the table, the wardog lies curled at his feet, warm and snoring softly.

"Have you done this before?" He asks the mage, vexed by his calm. "Teaching, that is."

"Not really but I had two younger siblings, so I helped," says Hawke, lightly.

"You never mentioned your sister."

The mirth drains from the mage's face and for a brief moment, he seems lost, like a man falling.

"No," his voice drops to a whisper. He clears his throat and sits more upright. "Can you write the letter C?"

"Aveline told me," Fenris says apologetically. He hears Hawke draw a quick breath.

"I know, she's great at keeping secrets," he replies without looking at the elf.

"I'm sorry."

"Why? She was a mage too, so I don't see why you'd care."

The words sting more than he'd expected, as do the signs of hurt in Hawke's expression. Fenris doesn't press the matter further, doubling back on his efforts to remember what a C looks like instead. They speak of it no more.

***

Hawke will not tell, nor does he pry. With each lesson, he feels stupider than last, the skills just always out of reach, like swinging a blade at the wrong angle or putting his weight on the wrong foot. Wasn't Trade supposed to be easy? Why put in all those letters if they aren't supposed to be pronounced? Even when he does remember them, in the time it takes him to piece together a word he forgets what it ought to say in the first place. Hawke praises and encourages, despite his stumbling. He doesn't lose hope, doesn't get angry, doesn't mind repeating the same thing ten times over.

Fenris has seen altus children receive more scolding from their tutors but the thought only makes him feel more unworthy. Wasted efforts, wasted time, he deserves none of it. More then once he slams a fist into the table and growls with frustration, ready to give up. Perhaps his master is right, he is not made for such pursuits.

Admitting this to Hawke was a mistake.

"That's not true and you know it," the mage tells him, unnervingly calm and resolute. "If Carver can do this, so can you."

"You make it look so easy," he retorts, exasperated.

"Now you know how I feel when I watch you fight," chuckles Hawke. "Though judging from your progress you're a quicker learner than me. Odds are you'll be reading soon and I'll still be getting my ass kicked."

"I can barely finish a short sentence."

"Which is more than you could before we started."

"I'm wasting your time."

"Think of it as doing the marauders out there a favour. Or giving other sellswords the chance to find work." Hawke smirks. "Better yet, you're keeping an apostate off the streets."

"Now you're giving both of us too much credit."

"The Chantry will probably send you a 'thank you' letter for that," he goes on. "And the best part is you'll be able to read it."

"Fuck you, Hawke."

"I'm terrible, aren't I? You should write a complaint."

Damn him, it's hard to keep a straight face. Fenris can feel a corner of his mouth hitching up against his will.

"To whom shall I address it?" 

"I don't know," the mage shrugs. "The Maker? My mother? Varric maybe? Just not Aveline, she'll have me for that."

"The Captain it is then."

"I ought to start running in that case. You'll make her proud with your new penmanship though."

"You didn't."

"I - didn't." Though he wanted to, that expression says. 


	21. Change of Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the hiatus, here is the culprit.  
> More fluff, coming soon ^^

"No, no, no, this won't do," says Anders, ignoring all the wary glances cast his way as he storms into the warehouse. "We'll need more silverite runes. And elfroot, absurd amounts of elfroot. We're talking Blight infested caverns here, not Orzammar's pantry." He picks up a bolt from a bundle and examines it closely, feeling the sharp tip with his thumb. "This might put down a bandit," he shouts, waving it around, "but stick it in a Hurlock and all it's going to do is piss it off."

"Who let this guy in?" barks Bartrand. 

"That's Blondie, our Warden."

"Retired," Anders points out. 

Garrett grins, dropping a sack onto a pile. 

"Happy you could join us. To what do we owe this change of heart?"

"I couldn't let you go off on your own now, could I? You asked nicely."

"Flattering but what about the clinic?"

"Ah, Kirkwall's got an endless supply of the sick but you've got only a limited number of people mad or desperate enough to come with you. It's easier to find a healer than a Grey Warden."

"I'm both mad and desperate, so you won't hear any complaints from me."

Carver rolls his eyes at their exchange. The thought of bringing the healer along is far from appealing but he could scarcely argue against it. Hard to believe the unkempt vagrant before them is one of the fabled warriors they've heard so much about, harder yet to picture him in griffon mail and charging darkspawn. 

***

Garrett hasn't had the heart to tell him yet. Skilled swordsmen are hard to come by but younger siblings harder yet and Leandra's words keep echoing in his head - "this is your fault" - as impossible to forget as the weight of Beth's body in his arms. Where she stands on the matter of Carver joining him on the expedition is no mystery, the question itself a fight with no victors. Prove her wrong and get disowned for your audacity, prove her right and you needn't bother coming back. 

Bartrand doesn't care either way. If he could take their sovereigns and leave them both behind, all the better. Deep down he'd made the decision long ago, firm in the conviction that it's the right thing to do. Father would have said the same. And yet, why does it feel like a betrayal?

After Ostagar, he'd promised Carver to stop treating him like a child, this time for good. They'd done well for themselves in the Red Iron, his little brother pulling his own weight, despite being the youngest in the whole company. Was it pride he'd felt back then? Or envy? 

It no longer matters. At least he'll be alive to bear that grudge and should the worst come to pass, mother will not be alone.

Maker knows they've sacrificed enough. 


	22. Night Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic violence and sibling rivalry with a side of fluff.

The evening has been slow so far. No jobs, no bounty hunters, no irritating apostates sweet talking him into trouble. Captain Vallen is on duty tonight and it shows - Hightown is quiet, eerily so, perhaps apart from his own prowling. He knows Aveline would disapprove but he needs the coin and he's not in a position to become a guard himself.

Not that it would be his first career option. Even with men like Hawke running around Kirkwall and turning it on its head, the job itself is too dull for his taste and training. Hard to slow down when one grows so accustomed to violence. 

At times like these Fenris does miss the Minrathous. The magelights on the main streets, the hum of its night markets, echoing with every known language in Thedas, and the ever lurking chance of a high profile assassination. He's been on both sides of those, always the last man standing, having only failed once. Danarius made sure he remembered. There was no second time.

***

Near the Rose there's always easy prey. The patrons are drunk and many of them rich, provided their pockets haven't already been relieved by other enterprising hands. Fights happen more often than not, so the odd fist exchange isn't going to raise any suspicion in the event of getting caught. 

"Not so tough now, are ya, pup?" says a gruff voice. 

By the looks of it, trouble's already afoot. Hanging in the shadows of an alley, Fenris spots three thugs kicking at some unfortunate soul on the ground. The next guard patrol ought to make its way here soon, so he's about to let them take care of it - hardly his concern, at any rate, and who's to say the fool didn't have it coming anyway. However, a familiar tone echoes from the battered bulk at their feet, still quite capable of issuing a stream of profanities their way.

"That's no way to adress your betters, kid. Let's teach little Hawke here some respect."

Fasta vass.

Cockiness and poor judgement must run in the family. He could walk away yet. Nobody's noticed his presence so far. Two of the guys hoist Carver to his feet, while third plants a punch in his gut. Fenris groans and steps out of the shadows. The men facing him, freeze as he they see him approach - they must have heard the rumours by now - and their grip loosens. Confused, the other thug starts asking them what they're doing, only to be swiftly yanked away.

"You filthy knife -" 

A spiked gauntlet connects with his jaw before he can finish the slur. 

"Boss, run!" shout the others. "It's that Vint merc from last week, the ghost!" 

They let Carver drop and scamper away as fast as their feet will allow. 

"That showed them," grunts the young man. "Ugh, Maker, everything hurts."

He clambers to his knees, hands groping for purchase on the nearest wall. The faint light filtering out from the Rose forces him to squint. One of his eyes is swollen shut and blood is smeared all over his face, though judging by the state of him, he's drunk enough to ignore most of the pain.

"I suppose I ought to ask what happened," says Fenris.

Leaning against the wall, Carver feels the bridge of his nose, hissing sharply when he finds it broken.

"What's there to tell?" he mutters, slurring his words a little. "Bastards had it out for me since I left the Iron. Second time this night."

"Where's your brother?"

"Fuck my brother." Fenris notices him clenching his fists as he pauses. "I should head home."

For some reason that sounds like a bad idea. He hasn't met Leandra yet but Aveline's story is still fresh in his mind, as are the exchanges the Hawkes often have - a wounded mother worried for her sons. He knows he holds no obligation, yet the sight of Carver's current state, all drunk and battered, does little to set him at ease, so in spite of his reluctance, Fenris hears himself saying:

"You ought to clean yourself up first. Maybe wait until you're sober." He lets out a resigned sigh and murmurs a Tevene oath under his breath. The Captain owes him for this. "Come on."

***

"Garrett and I had a fight," says Carver, splashing water over his face from a barrel. Fortunately, most houses in Hightown have their own well in the cellar and this one hasn't run dry yet. "You know the best part about punching a mage, Fenris?"

Well, this is going to be interesting. They're standing in what was probably a kitchen at some point, passing a bottle of wine between them.

"Caught the bastard square in the nose but he'll be fine by tomorrow."

"What about you?"

"Ah, I can take it. We've been doing this since we were kids." His face says otherwise but it's hard to tell which blow came from whom. "At least he's gotten better at it."

"What were you fighting about?"

"Have you met my brother?"

"Fair point."

Carver drinks again before continuing.

"It was my fault too, I guess, might have said too much. Shouldn't have lost my temper like that." His voice drops and so do his shoulders but Fenris waits for him to go on. "Why does he always get to call the shots? Back in the Iron, we had equal footing - best period of my life so far. Now it's back to Garrett knows best. The worst part? Half the time I'm the one having to watch his back and bail him out of trouble - and believe me when I say he gets into a lot of trouble."

"I would have been skeptical if you told me he didn't."

"Wanna hear something funny?" Carver snickers and slides onto the floor, despite his initial intention was obviously to sit on the chair next to him. "I think he's sweet on someone."

"How so?"

"He's been sneaking off to Hightown on his own, once a week or so for a while now."

For better or for worse, the young man is far too drunk to take note of Fenris' reaction and rants on. 

"Tries real hard to make himself presentable every time - washes up, trims his beard, fusses over how he looks. _Hey Carver, is my hair alright or should I cut it?_ " he mocks his brother's gruff tone and laughs. "Knowing him, it's probably some married noblewoman. Bet she's Orlesian too."

This news doesn't shake him, of course. Even so, he catches himself grinning. Carver doesn't pay him any mind. Suddenly lost in thought, he changes the subject.

"Speaking of that. Say, Fenris, you're an elf."

"Your deductive skills impress me."

"Mind if I ask you something?" he pauses, taking the silence for agreement. "Merrill."

"That's not a question. What about her?"

"How would you go about it?"

"I'd use magebane first."

"No, not like that!"

Fenris raises an eyebrow.

"I mean, if you liked her," explains Carver.

"I don't."

"Well, I do. Is there some elven custom I should know about?"

"How should I know? I'm not Dalish. Though not going to the Rose and sleeping with Isabela might be a start."

"What?" Carver gasps. "How do you know about that?"

"She told me," he shrugs. "Us, actually - gave a rather detailed description too, I might add."

The young man stares at him, bewildered, before burying his face in his hands and making a low embarrassed noise, half groan, half wail.

"I guess Garrett's right, I am an idiot."

"Perhaps, though you've got time."


	23. Distraction

Chin propped on one elbow, Garrett rests his gaze on the smooth edge of the elf's jawline, letting it slip downwards along the pale tendril beneath the ear to where it vanishes into the collar of his shirt. He draws a deep breath, focused on the slight motion as Fenris tilts his head to examine the page from a different angle. A strand of white hair brushes against that warm dark skin and all he can think about now is reaching out and tucking it back behind the elf's ear. 

"Shall I undress?" asks Fenris casually.

Snapping to attention, Garrett looks up to find himself pinned by that deep emerald stare. The sudden implication sends a few savagely explicit images into his mind. They're still at the commandeered mansion, sitting on opposite sides of the table with Dog snoring loudly at their feet. Did he hear that right? The elf's expression is as deadpan as it can get, his tone almost inviting if it weren't for the bite in his words.

"I'm afraid that if you strain your imagination any harder something is bound to catch fire."

No, he isn't dreaming. The lingering scent of mold, the cracked plaster on the walls, the draft coming from the shattered window, all feel as real as usual, which means that unless he's having some hard lyrium trip, the Fenris currently staring him down is the actual one and not some sly desire demon trying to trick him. And yet - 

"You'd do that?" Garrett says tentatively, voice catching in his throat.

"No."

"Oh." The realization of what just happened fills him with shame. _What the fuck is wrong with you?_ Instinctively, he turns away, head hung between his shoulders like a dog that's just been caught chewing on the furniture. "I'm sorry," he musters up the sense to add. "I'm making you uncomfortable."

"I'm used to it," says the elf, trying to sound as casual as before. The strained note in his tone speaks of something else though. "Mages eyeing me like that, I mean."

The comment comes stronger than a punch. It would be great if he could just dig a hole and crawl into it, possibly die there while he's at it. 

"I should go."

"Why?" 

"We can stop doing this," he says, choking on his words. "You don't have to put up with me."

"Who am I to argue with then?" scoffs Fenris. "The spiders?"

"You have spiders lying around? Where?" 

Of course there would be spiders in this awful Maker forsaken place. The soft chuckle he hears across the table draws a glance out of him. Sure enough, the elf is smirking for some reason, despite everything.

"What's wrong, Hawke? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you look scared."

Inhaling deeply, Garrett straightens himself and pretends to browse through the book between them.

"Me? No such thing. When have you ever seen me scared?" _Please don't answer that._ "Unnerved? Uneasy? Sure," he shrugs. "Call it tactical second guessing, if you will." 

Fenris quirks an eyebrow at the response but he's not about to elaborate, turning pages and feigning interest in whatever random line he settles on. 

"Care to read this out for me?" says Garrett, tapping his finger against a particularly convoluted looking sentence. It turns out to be a poor choice on his part but the elf is happy to oblige.

 _He ran his fingers along the strong flank, feeling the muscles tense with anticipation, while warm breath turned to steam in the chill of the night, and the chevalier clutched the hilt of his sword, steel hard in his palm, remembering the hot touch of the blood -_

"Maker, stop!"

There are moments when Garrett suspects the elf knows very well what he's doing. This very much feels like one of them but none of that changes anything. _You're the only one to blame here_. The mabari twitches at their feet, running in his doggy dreams, and he glimpses Fenris smiling at it. _Maybe he puts up with you for the dog alone._

None of it makes what's to come any easier but he figures now's as good a time as any, lest he blunder further and ends up leaving without broaching the subject.

"Varric's told you about the expedition, right?"

"He's told half of Kirkwall," remarks Fenris, "the other half found out from the rumours."

"It is rather daunting, isn't it?"

"Sounds more like a death wish."

"I prefer to call it a gamble," says Garrett, regaining some of his confidence. "What if I asked you to join us?"

Despite his apparent reluctance, he can tell the elf is intrigued.

"Why?"

"Because you need coin and we could use a swordsman." _Because I can't stand to put Carver in danger anymore._ He doesn't say that, of course - having already done it once. The elf's clever, he'll probably figure it out anyway. "Bartrand won't offer any guarantees but if you want, I can promise you a cut even if we find nothing down there other than darkspawn and rocks. Does that sound fair?"

"And if we don't come back?"

"We'll be too dead to care," Garrett grins. Their eyes meet for a moment and it's suddenly harder to breathe but he won't let himself look away. Dog barks in his sleep, luring that scathing green glare away. "Just give it some thought, you don't have to answer me now. We leave in a week."


	24. Out with a Bang

_Dear Daisy,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. We've had a couple of close calls but we're still alive. [...]_

***

"I'm a healer, Hawke, not a Maker damned necromancer!" 

Despite the anger in his voice, Anders is as methodical as ever, stripping off broken armour, working as he goes, checking for broken bones and mending the worst of the damage as he finds it. Garrett merely groans in response but it's enough of a protest to set him off a anew.

"What were you thinking?" He yells frantically, bent over the wounded man. "Oh, look at this place, nobody's redecorated in years, let me just collapse the fucking ceiling. There, I did it. Much better now, isn't it? But you know what would go well with those darkspawn corpses? My own!"

"Come on, Blondie, give the man a break. At least we dug him out in time."

"Mighty good that'll do him if I can't stop the internal bleeding. Quit moving around," he adds, flattening a palm against Garrett's chest and calling upon another spell. "It's hard enough as it is and you've spent your stupid points for today."

The world is dust and noise and darkspawn. Each intake of breath feels like swallowing knives, yet he's surprised that it didn't end. The all round darkness, save for the cold glow of magelight, reminds him that he isn't in the Wilds. The man shouting above him isn't Carver. He faced the ogre but Bethany's still dead and none of his current injuries compare to the force of the despair welling up inside his chest. Eyes burning, he turns his head just in time to catch a glimpse of the elf walking away. 

***

_[...]In Bartrand's case it seems more like a pilgrimage than anything. They're all looking for something down here but I'd be an even greater liar if I claimed to understand. What would your gods think of it? I know the Dalish have stories about us but none come to mind. You'll have to play storyteller for me when we get back, Daisy. [...]_

***

Fenris ventures he can see the outline of a weathered carving on the wall, it's meaning as opaque as the thick darkness of the tunnel ahead. All is quiet save for the subdued noises of their camp. Either the darkspawn are far away or the healer is too exhausted to stir, the usual irritating chatter between him and the rest gone silent for once. 

Trudging along together in such closed quarters has been nothing short of taxing but the worst he's had to deal with so far was the prodding and the cavalier casting of the two apostates vying for each other's attention. Hawke was as annoying as two people already, without the healer's help. Together, there is such a thing as too much - ten times the prattle for half the work. Fenris stubbornly tended to his wounds on his own, with nothing but poultices and practice picked up on the way, sickened at the mere idea of his touch. Up to a certain point, it had been enough.

With a stolen glance at the camp he notices Hawke is gone, the bloodied bedroll empty.

Vishante kaffas.

He can't have gotten too far, not in that state, and his staff is still there, lying on the ground nearby, which also means he has no light - a light or a torch would have roused the others until now. 

There are plenty of reasons for concern though. Too much has happened in the past hours - since one could hardly call it day or night down in these Maker forsaken caverns - and his ears are still ringing with the force of the explosion. 

It started with a cluster of darkspawn probing their defenses. Focused on the fight at hand, nobody noticed the ogre until it had emerged from the mouth of the passage and charged right into their midst. 

Hawke rammed into him last minute, casting a barrier as they rolled onto the ground, while the beast stomped viciously in the place where he had stood. Before either of them could catch their breath, it turned and towered above, bringing down a massive fist with full force. Hawke hit it with a mind blast, so desperate and out of control Fenris thought he heard the cry in his own head. Not an experience he'd ever care to repeat but it got them the edge needed to escape, or so he assumed. Once the ogre staggered, Hawke swiftly got back on his feet and charged ahead, stopping just out of its reach and yelling at everyone to stay away. 

Time sped up, then ground to a halt for a few precious seconds as they all realized what he was doing. Then came the bang. The air surged with the crackle of magic in all the worst ways and the floor shook with the force of the blast. Whether he used fire or force, Fenris could not say - they were all concerned with taking cover by that point. 

The stone above their heads collapsed with a deafening roar, cutting off the passage. No warning could have prepared him for that. The next thing he remembers is Varric and Anders shouting at each other while frantically digging through the rubble. 

"Don't just sit there, we have to get him out!" 

The healer's cry snapped him out of his daze. His brands echoed pain throughout his flesh but Fenris willed himself to move. It seemed hopeless for good while too. 

***

_[...]I'm thinking of working this whole thing into my next book - the Deep Roads as some metaphor of the heart, riddled with veins that lead into the darkest of depths. In their search for treasure, our brave heroes face peril, get lost, and confront their inner demons, finding their way back by a following a length of twine that connects them to their home. Is that too obvious?  
_

_I'm not a superstitious man, Daisy, but humour me here and let me cling to my end of the yarn while you hold on to yours. Sometimes, all one needs is a lifeline, be it even in thought alone.[...]_

***

He finds Hawke a whimpering mess curled up in the darkness beyond a bend, shoulders quivering and head buried in his hands. The mage doesn't register his approach. Fenris has seen this condition before during his skirmishes in Seheron and isn't quite sure he's free of it himself - that uncontrollable terror that comes with recollection, the maddening weight of things one would rather forget. 

"I owe you thanks," he says, keeping his voice even.

Hawke looks up, staring blindly at the dark. A human couldn't see a thing in those conditions.

"What for?" His voice sounds shaky.

"You swooped in just in time to save me from that ogre. As questionable as your methods might have been, I'll give credit, where credit is due."

A wry laughter echoes in response.

"Don't thank me," he says eventually. "I dragged you here in the first place."

"You seem to forget I came of my own accord. You fought well, Hawke, all things considered."

"What can I say? You get good at putting out fires when you're the one that's starting them."

"Commendable still - not many do."

There's sniffling, like he's been crying.

"What are you doing here?" Fenris asks.

"Oh, you know, enjoying the sights -" Hawke's voice breaks before he can take the joke further. "I needed a moment."

"It's not safe."

It's hard to say how long their silence stretches but it's Hawke who speaks again.

"It should have been me," he says in a barely audible whisper. "In the Wilds, during the Blight."

Things fall into place. He remembers what Aveline told him, how Hawke had kept this buried ever since. Carver had acknowledged it as well. In the utter darkness, as if speaking to the ruined passage, the mage gives his confession.

"Bethany died and it was all my fault." He pauses, letting the words drop like pebbles down a well. "Because I was a coward. I promised myself I'd never hesitate again, so all I can do now is hope there's still a chance to make things right."

"That won't bring her back."

"No, but it can make her death mean something."

"Is that what she'd want?"

"I don't know," says Hawke, shrinking against the wall. 

"Survival often takes more courage than dying," Fenris tells the mage, though he isn't sure those words aren't aimed at himself. 

For once they speak a common tongue.

***

_[...]We've still got a ways to go until we reach our goal but what might await us there I cannot say. All I ask is that you wait for us, Daisy, and I hope to see you soon. Maker preserve us, sending all my love,_

_Yours,_   
_Varric_

_P.S.: Should you run into Junior, let him know staying behind was the right idea._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes our journey through Act 1. 
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who made it this far and perhaps ask how are you finding this trip ^^ Feel free to tell me your impressions in the comments. 
> 
> Off to work on Act 2.
> 
> Here's to hoping you'll join me on what's to come. 
> 
> Cheers!


	25. Welcome Home

_It had the air of a grand event, their return._

_News of the expedition's success had already been spreading since the elder Tethras made a break for the surface with a couple of men and all the plunder they could carry, looking to sell some strange artifact they fished out of the depths that allegedly cost him the rest of his crew, next of kin included._

_Naturally, when that same next of kin was seen approaching Kirkwall with the rest of the missing men, the whole city stirred with skepticism and curiosity alike._

Excerpt from "The Tale of the Champion", by Varric Tethras

***

"Another round," shouts Varric. "We're rich now!" There is no mirth in the statement and he's slurring his words a little. 

Propped on one elbow, Garrett stares blankly at the familiar squalor of the Hanged Man. Loud cries, tall ceilings for tall tales, the general drunken din of Lowtown's dregs, it fills his ears and hopefully, his heart. If not, the swill will do the rest. 

"To treasure and adventure," he toasts, the cheer a tad stilted. "Think of all the luxuries to come - my fleas are itching at the thought."

"We've earned. All of it."

"We have, haven't we?" Why did it sound so ominous? "Say, Varric, if you do end up taking over this dive, promise you'll charge Templars double?"

"I'll see what I can do." 

"And half of the proceeds ought to go to handsome apostates in need."

"Nice try, Hawke," chuckles the dwarf. "What about Junior?"

There it is, the sore spot on their otherwise successful return. Surprising? Hardly, since even father had known about Carver's knightly aspirations. The punch was in the timing. _I'll bet he knocked on their door at the exact same time Bartrand shut the one behind us._ He doesn't say it though. In spite of appearances, Garrett does try to shut up whenever he can. After all, he did manage to stay quiet while Leandra yelled at him for letting the family fall apart. 

The Viscount won't read her letters and Carver is gone. Their fresh coin might just be enough to change things, Garrett muses. He'll stay from now on, he'll be good, he'll try. Maybe this is what love is, or loyalty at least. 

"I doubt he'll find the time. All those pesky mages aren't going to hunt themselves, are they? Besides, I bet Merry expects him to be home by evening prayer."

Well that wasn't bitter at all, was it? Grudges make for poor bedfellows, especially when their subject happens to be equally begrudging. What was Carver supposed to do? Wait patiently for his return? Quietly listen to stories of his older brother's newfound fame while the chasm between them widens? It wasn't that Garrett didn't understand but none of this could have prepared him for that sight.

They came clattering down from the Hightown Gate, three men in full armour, the flaming sword on their breastplates polished to a shine and sparkling in the sun. Garrett tensed out of instinct, all colour draining from his face, the staff of his back suddenly heavier. Part of him wanted to laugh - he'd survived the Deep Roads only to be dragged off to the Gallows. A fight out in the open like that would have been a bad idea. Victory was far from guaranteed, even if by some miracle Fenris decided to take his side. That alone was not a gamble he felt like making. Maker knows the elf had done enough. If he gave Garrett a shove and told the Templars to take him away, he wouldn't even argue. Varric would pay up and do right by his family, he knew. 

No such thing happened though. Carver removed his helmet to give him a cold greeting. Garrett's first impulse was to shove a fist into that sour expression of his, with a few shouted insults for good measure, yet somehow found the strength to hold back. Their exchange remained brief, less of a reunion and more of an acknowledgement that something had snapped between them for good.

Even now, staring into the foamy contents of his mug, Garrett can still feel the fault line in his chest, a sense of permanence running along its jagged edges. What would Beth make of all this, he can't help but ponder. 

"He'll come round, eventually" Varric pats him on the arm, looking just as lost himself, and Garrett isn't sure the words are entirely directed at him. "Family is weird like that."

"To brotherly betrayal then?" he says, lifting his mug.

"To their inevitable return," rectifies the dwarf. 

"Fair enough."


	26. Vigil

What would Beth make of all this?

Carver listens to the lapping of the waves against rocks below. From this point in the Gallows he cannot glimpse the sea except for its glimmer on the horizon through the heavy iron bars at the window. His quarters are cramped and bare but clean, whitewashed walls around a plain cot and a table. Andraste watches, perched on a narrow shelf, blind witness to his vigil.

Something within him refuses to submit, as restless as the expanse of the Waking Sea beyond. Perhaps there is evil sleeping in his blood, sin waiting to wake and stir. It ought to feel right - he wanted this, did he not? Yet even with the armour on his shoulders and the Chant on his lips, he's still an imposter, a fraud. Wicked, in short, both in heart and in mind.

"Good men are always full of doubt," father would say. Hard to imagine him spending most of his youth locked in this place, a sword just like Carver's always looming near. Whenever he thinks of Malcolm, all that comes to mind is the portrait of a free man, proud and unafraid.

***

The cart trundled along the road, pebbles and dirt crunching under the wheels. Lothering was a short ride ahead, nestled against the Imperial Highway like moss on a tree. They could spot the outline of its ruined arches lit up by the bright summer sun. A storm was coming, father had told them, and time would prove him right.

Carver was too young to care. He didn't know that would be their last trip together. After months of pleading, Malcolm had finally agreed to bring him to the Chantry for Templar training. Now Carver sat proudly beside him at the front, beaming with satisfaction as they spoke. Garrett rode in the back, bored and a somewhat salty over his loss - they had fought over the seat as always, though Carver was winning more often of late. Despite the difference in age, he already stood as tall as his brother at only 15.

"Ser Bryant will want to test your sword arm, I suspect," said Malcolm. His long dark hair was greying at the temples and silver threads streaked his beard.

"It's about time he got to try it out on someone else's hide for a change," remarked Garrett.

"Not my fault you don't know when to quit," muttered Carver over his shoulder. "I could use a warm-up, matter of fact."

"Why bother? If they say yes, you'll be battering mages for years to come. You ought to pace yourself, you know."

"Templars aren't supposed to batter mages, Garrett," Malcolm intervened. "The good ones don't, at least."

"What a waste then, battering is what he does best."

"There's more to it than fighting, brother."

"Yes, like running around in skirts and not being able to talk to girls."

"Maker, I swear-"

"Both of you, that's enough," father said. The old nag nickered as if to agree. "How about you go over the list of things we have to get?"

"I told Beth I'd bring her something from the merchant," Garrett went on as if nothing had happened. "But I have no idea what."

"Why not let her choose for herself?" asked Malcolm, the lines around his mouth curling in a conspiratorial smile. "We're almost there anyway."

A few moments went by, the boys eyeing each other with confusion. The cart shook and rattled as they hit a bump in the road, drawing out an unexpected "Ow!" from the pile of empty sacks at Garrett's feet. Bethany got up up, rubbing her forehead with the base of her palm. Bits of yellow straw poked out of her disheveled dark braid.

"Gave you a scare, didn't I?" she laughed at Garrett. "You should see your face."

"That's our Beth, unstoppable and unrelenting," added Malcolm. "Your mother won't be happy you ran away like that though."

"It isn't fair," Beth protested, "I wanted to come too."

"We'll think up an apology on our way back," her father told her, a warm smile still tugging at his lips.

Once in Lothering, they split up. Bethany and Garrett went off to run errands, elbowing each other and snickering in that complicit way of theirs, while he and father headed for the Chantry. A mabari was barking somewhere in the distance. It felt good, sharing this moment with him. Years later, that's how he would remember him, tall and dignified, even in his humble farmer clothes. Nobody would have suspected the plain wooden walking stick in his hand was a mage's staff and there he was, ready to brave the danger of discovery for Carver's sake. Malcolm turned to him and clapped his shoulder. Warm joy intermingled with a distinct sense of pride filled his chest, putting a spring in his gait. He might not have been as gifted as his siblings but he was determined to make own his abilities count, to prove himself worthy of being his father's son.

They stopped to read the Chanter's board and Malcolm furrowed his brow. Missing people and monster sightings, darkspawn wandering off to the surface. Carver didn't know it back then but that had been the end. At the time it was a mere ugly blemish on an otherwise perfect day. Yet that message scrawled in an uneven hand and nailed there before them spoke of all that was to come.

***

He remembers that day with the clarity of a vision. Kneeling before Andraste, all he can think about is the straw in her hair, the smoothness of her braid in his fist on the many occasions on which he'd pulled it to make her cry. How she came back skipping behind Garrett, showing them the spool of ribbon she had bought.

His prayers ring hollow in the confines of that small chamber but he shuts his eyes and presses on. Perhaps they aren't meant for Andraste at all.

Late as it may be, he'll make it up to them yet.


	27. Chivalry

"Well, what do you think?" 

Fenris curls a corner of his mouth, taking in the sight. With his family name restored and their fortune replenished, Hawke might as well be an altus. Somehow though he still reserves the image of a scoundrel about to steal the silverware, and even without the khaddis, he's as out of place as ever in his own freshly furnished study, like a stable boy trampling his muddy boots onto fine carpets. For a moment, he tries to picture the mage as a Tevinter aristocrat, made up with kohl and clad in gold trimmed robes, and fails. Those hands are far too rough for rings, that manner too honest and direct. Most of all, he's never seen Hawke scoff at those less fortunate than him. 

Kindness, in fact, seems to be his greatest weakness, one that Fenris has been drawing on for while, if only to see where it will end. So far it hasn't. Quite the contrary though, it's grown into some foolish infatuation beyond lust, which is hardly a secret anymore. Not that he minds.

"That thing," Fenris says, pointing at a hideous sculpture mounted on the wall, all hard angles and terror. "It's Tevinter." 

"I can set it on fire if you'd like," grins Hawke, a tiny flame already flickering at his fingertips. 

"Please refrain."

"I guess you're right." He closes his fist, snuffing it out, feigning disappointment. "Mother wouldn't be too happy about that."

The room is warm and welcoming, its walls lined with half filled bookcases. Most of the tomes however are scattered about, piled up in stacks, tied with string, or still in their crates. Bodahn brought them wine, a vintage Fenris suspects came from merchants now looking to ingratiate themselves with Kirkwall's new money. In a corner, a big leafed plant clings to dear life, likely poisoned by mabari pee, its tormentor snoring softly by the fire. Leaning back against his desk, arms folded, Hawke speaks:

"How's the book so far?" 

"Atrocious." 

That earns him a chuckle, along with a glance that's awfully pleasing. 

"I know, right?" says the mage.

"The plot is ridiculous and nothing makes any sense. Who announces to somebody that they're about to stab them?"

"Orlesian chevaliers, of course. Which part are you at?"

"The tourney." Fenris rolls his eyes. "She's picked her champion and he's to fight for her. Fasta vass, so much ceremony, half the story is just prattle about courting."

"You know you can pick something else if you'd prefer."

"No, trite as it may be, I find it a pleasant distraction."

They go over notes, difficult words he's copied out and spelling exercises. His handwriting remains a tortured scrawl, letters uneven, their shapes often misremembered and confused. As if the inking alone weren't hard enough, the lyrium in his hands makes his joints ache, sending sudden jolts of white pain that twist his quill when he least expects them. Part of him still feels like it's a waste but Hawke's goodwill makes it hard to refuse. The first time it happened in his presence, the mage had reached out, tried touching his hand. Fenris drew it quickly away, casting him a look equal parts hatred and panic. Hawke hasn't tried since. 

In fact he keeps his distance, even now. Waits to be called upon to sit closer, won't do so without permission. For a man whose very existence is all about breaking the rules, he's surprisingly obedient. At times it's obvious he's refraining, especially after a battle, when Fenris wipes his sword and counts his wounds. The others will chatter, or bicker, or both - Hawke stares at him, an unbearable mixture of concern and compassion weighing down his brow. Fortunately it does not last. 

"Having both magic and power doesn't immediately make one a villain," he remarks. The conversation has long since veered into Chantry politics. "The Hero of Ferelden is a mage and they say the King appointed her to rule the region of Amaranthine."

"I have no doubt she is a formidable woman but that doesn't mean she cannot be corrupted. Tyrants do not rise over night, it took the Magisters centuries to reach this point. What I mean is that mages are more susceptible to temptation and have more means of holding onto power once they've acquired it."

"How can someone used to resisting demons from a young age be more susceptible?"

"Perhaps they tire, or maybe they're already lost and hiding it well. Either way, they cannot be trusted with the welfare of others."

"Because having magic makes one cruel by nature?"

"You misunderstand, it isn't magic alone that renders them cold blooded. Some are just born that way, others are warped in their upbringing but possessing such an advantage over everyone else quickly becomes a justification for whatever evil they might wreak upon others. I once witnessed a woman murdering her own brother by making his insides boil. She walked away without punishment simply because she was a mage and he was soporati. Their lives - our lives - do not matter. And that is what the Chantry is trying to prevent."

"Right," says Hawke derisively, "by being proactive and punishing innocents."

"Life in the Gallows is hardly a punishment. It's a small price to pay for everyone's sake."

"Yes, here in the South, fratricide and other forms of murder are done by simpler means, accessible to all. Surely a knife in the ribs is a fairer way to die and all it costs is some people being torn away from their families and denied every freedom."

"Fenedhis, Hawke, don't act as though you've never used your powers to get your way!"

"Well, I haven't killed my brother, have I? Though Maker knows he hasn't been making it easy."

"This is hardly amusing. You know what I mean."

"Tripping up some snot nosed noble with a hex for calling me things is scarcely on par with enslaving people and living off their misery. Even you are aware of that. Everything else was - is - a matter of survival."

"See? You're justifying it."

"Oh, piss off, Fenris. Show me one single bastard that didn't deserve to be reduced to ashes by yours truly and I'll go straight to Meredith, head bowed and staff up my ass. You know how I take contracts. After all, you played on that rather well."

It always comes down to that. Like it or not, he is still a man in debt. No late night skirmish, raid, or expedition could pay back for the freedom Hawke helped him earn. The coin might be settled but there is so much left unsaid. It's been both boone and bane, the weight of chains replaced with that of choice. He could have left. He could leave yet. Why hasn't he?

The mabari's cold wet nose finds his hand. Their arguing must have woken it up because its small beady eyes are still weary. Massive jaws gape open in a yawn and the wardog stretches lazily before proceeding to lick his fingers with a whine. Fenris runs his hand across that short rough fur. Leaning into it, the mabari rests against his legs and sighs. 

"Back to the chevaliers," he says after a long stretch of silence. "What's this supposed to mean?" 

Hawke squints at the text, so he beckons him closer.

"Favour," the mage tells him. "Not in the usual sense though. In this context it's less abstract, an actual token her Ladyship grants him to mark him as her Champion."

"Oh, I see. So that's how the others knew."

"Yeah, it's like the scheduled stabbing - chivalry and stuff." 

Hawke smiles, despite their arguing. The wine is good, the evening young.

From one truce to another, they move on.


	28. Ma ghilana mir vhenan*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *'Guide me to my heart'
> 
> My apologies if the grammar is off, the more I stare at Elvhen expressions, the more confusing they get.

Kirkwall felt quite empty without Varric or Hawke but she wasn't alone. There wasn't any room for that in the alienage. Lonely, on the other hand, was a different thing, one which crept in through the floor cracks and made off into the night with another piece of her heart. Merrill was no stranger to that. In fact, she often found herself wondering if there was anything left in her chest aside from shadows. Like the eluvian, she'd been shattered and scattered and lost. Perhaps she was a ghost - it certainly felt so.

Days tumbled past in busywork. There was much to be done. It would have been much easier had her feet ceased leading her astray yet they would always carry on without her the moment her gaze got stuck on some unsung landmark - the mast of a ship, a statue clinging to a pillar, a quote from the Qun graffittied on a wall. 

The mornings she spent listening to her people, collecting their sorrows like so many butterflies in a jar. They knew nothing of it, nor thought much of the aloof young woman covered in vallaslin. Afterwards, she'd wander off, searching for new tools. Rebuilding the mirror without the help of Master Ilen meant hard work and the ironbark would not obey her. Magic alone would not suffice. 

On one such afternoon, she ran into Carver. Odd of him to be hanging around the alienage like that but when she asked, he turned all crimson and couldn't say more. _Ara seranna-ma, it's rude of me to pry._ They walked together for a while, not quite daring to look one another in the eye. He was afraid of her, she sensed, just like everyone else. 

On other days, Isabela found her idling at the docks, watching the ships moor and depart. She told her stories, bought her drinks, called her 'kitten' as she wrapped an arm around her waist. Her hair carried the scent of smoke and saltwater. 

The evenings belonged to the eluvian. It had been a while since the spirit had chosen to speak with her. Blood, it seemed, was no longer enough. No matter how much she polished it, the surface of the glass would not reflect a thing. No spell, nor skill could coax it back to life. Again and again, she would dream of Tamlen and wake up with all that absence clawing at her from the inside. It would consume her eventually, leave her hollow, no more than a shell.

 _Ma ghilana mir vhenan_ , she spoke before the mirror, running bloodied fingertips across the cracks, _Lathbora mir, ghilana-ma_.

***

They couldn't all be afraid, could they? Her feet had brought her to the Gallows, coiling and uncoiling one end of the twine around her forefinger, the nightmare which had shaken her awake still clinging to her thoughts. 

  
***

Mahariel sat on the edge of her cot, looking down at her, face gaunt and mottled with the Blight. 

"They see what I see," she spoke, "the truth." No. "They see you for what you are, harellan. They know." Her voice was flat but filled with venom. "Mir din'an tu mala enasal." 

It wasn't true, Merrill tried saying, though the denial was aimed at herself. There was a word for it, she knew - hypocrite. Maybe the eluvian would not reflect anything until she embraced the truth. This was, of course, a test. Audacity was back.

 _Ma nuvenin then_. Mere trickery. She wasn't going to be frightened. One did not come as far as she did by giving in so easily. Merrill was anything but weak. If anything, it only served to strengthen her resolve. 

"Mahariel's sacrifice will not be forgotten," she told the spirit. "This is beyond what I might have felt for Tamlen. My goal remains our people's past. If I find him along the way, all the better, if not, so be it. Arlathan, however, deserves to be recovered. It is my duty and my calling, as I have vowed."

"Even if you lose yourself along the way?"

"That will not happen."

***

It wouldn't. There was nothing wrong with her and she would prove it. 

Unlike the Bazaar, the small marketplace set up by the Circle was quiet. Nobody sold pastries, only poultices and enchantments, and there so, so many Templars. They couldn't just look at you and tell you were a mage, right? Hawke had wandered around there freely and nobody stopped him. If he could do that, so could she. 

The statues were horrendous, those suffering effigies collared to the pillars. They did scare her a little. Head craned to gaze at their massive bony limbs, she nearly knocked someone over. The woman did not speak but fixed her with blank eyes, on her forehead, a brand in the shape of a flaming sun. Merrill backed off warily, feigning interest in some elfroot mixtures at a nearby stall. 

Her heart was in her throat. A cold steel gauntlet grabbed her elbow and she could barely stop herself from crying out. 

"What in Andraste's name are you doing here?" said Carver through his teeth, pulling her away. His grip was hurting her but the anger on his face was far worse.

"I -" she began, faltering. "I came to see you."

"Why? Has something happened?" His features softened. "Are you in danger?"

"Creators, no, nothing like that."

"What then?"

"Isabela told me you joined the Templars. I - " 

What if the spirit had been right? What if Carver did see the darkness where her heart should have been? 

"Leave," he told her, shoving her away. "Now. Don't ever come back here."

Hot tears trickled down her cheeks. She was shaking, she realized. The hurt grew louder by the moment. Carver turned on his heels and walked away, armour clattering. Without ever sparing her a glance, he said something to another Templar who was looking at her, then shook his head. 

Merrill turned too and ran.

***

A knock on her door and she opens it to find Hawke there.

"Lethallin!" she cries, jumping in his arms, and he scoops her up with equal joy. "You're back!"

Behind him, Varric waves and smiles. 

"Finally, someone happy to see us," says Hawke, while she rushes to the dwarf. "I told you, Varric, we just had to keep trying."

"Daisy, darling, you have no idea how much I missed you."

They spend the evening talking about their adventures and sharing all manner of sweets that they brought along. A perilous journey indeed. Her quarters are cramped but buzzing with warmth, their presence filling that emptiness within her like flames fill a hearth. Hawke calls her pretty and she can feel the fire reaching her cheeks. Only now does it strike her how much she has missed that smile. He sees her - the Merrill she wishes to be - and she catches her own reflection in his dark umber eyes - that Merrill who has a heart. 

"I told you the twine would guide us back," Varric tells her. "Thank you for holding on it."

 _Ma ghilana mir vhenan_ , echoes her thought as she thanks him in turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Garrett is an irredeemable flirt and he doesn't even realize what effect it has on people. All aboard the "what could possibly go wrong" rollercoaster.
> 
> This would also be a good time to specify that the story takes place in the same World State as my DAO and DAI playthroughs, hence the Warden Amell tag and the references to Mahariel's death. 
> 
> And, oh, the angst - I promise I'll do my best to make it right, just bear with me.


	29. Wicked Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter meant to delve a bit into the post-game lives of my DAO gang via banter (which I happen to write about whenever I find myself stuck here, along with the DAI squad). Feel free to skip this one if that's too self-indulgent, posting the next in order to make up for it. 
> 
> That being said, I'm including a warning for Isabela making light of Fenris' past (it's about on the same level as her comments in the game but I'm aware even those are hard to stomach). Again, the whole scene is perfectly skippable.

"Your turn, Blondie. Give us some hope here."

"I would but I'm afraid Isabela's going to rob us of that too." Anders fidgets in a half-hearted attempt to hide that he's bluffing. "I ought to fold."

"Quiet, love, you can't get any poorer." She rests a boot on the edge of his chair, catching a glimpse of his hand when readjusts his position. Two Knights and an Angel of Charity, he'd win if this were the end round but that won't be the case, since she's drawing two cards instead of one as they speak. "Besides, there's always other ways of paying." 

"Are we to believe one third of Kirkwall owes you money then?" says Fenris, as charming a host as always. At least he's cleared most of the cobwebs from the room, though she suspects that's Aveline's doing - the image of the Captain fumbling around the ruined mansion with a broom makes her laugh. 

"Some of them do," she replies gingerly. "By the looks of it, you're eager to join them."

"Keep dreaming, woman," mutters the elf. "Unlike these two, I know when to stop."

"When you are bested, right?" He's been holding onto the Angel of Death for a while and it would be mighty inconvenient should he choose to play it now, so she eggs him on, leaning closer. "When someone stronger comes along and you _bend_ for them? Surrender? Submit and let them do their worst?" 

Fenris rolls his eyes but bites without realizing it, throwing his last silver into the pot. 

"Broody has a point," says Varric, "I fold."

"Maker, I'm in danger," chuckles the healer, "and out of coin. Varric?"

"Just strip," says Fenris, "you heard Isabela."

"Now, now," she retorts, "We're talking about different rates of exchange here. I've already seen him naked."

"And you liked it," Anders teases.

"You're no King of Ferelden."

"How would you know?" asks the mage. "You said he never took off his clothes."

"No way, Rivaini," laughs Varric. "Is it true?"

"Of course it is," purrs Isabela. "Funny story, that one."

"You can't just drop a hint like that and not tell us more," says the dwarf, pouring drinks.

"Fine." She hoists her other leg onto Anders' chair and sips her ale. "There I was, at the Pearl in Denerim, when this old friend of mine shows up with a pair of Grey Wardens. Slips me two sovereigns suggesting I spend the night with His Highness, says his partner is paying. Mind you, he wasn't King yet."

They're all listening intently, so she lays down her cards conveniently close to the discarded pile. Fenris narrows his eyes but says nothing.

"I didn't give it much thought, I mean, there was a Blight and this huge bounty on their heads, I figured - who wouldn't want some fun? He was quite handsome too, so I agreed. Andraste's holy knickers, what a night! Not all the ale in Denerim could calm that poor man's nerves. Sat himself on the floor, wouldn't even touch the bed. Talk about stage fright," she laughs. "It wasn't performance anxiety though, not all of it at least. We got talking, you know, I thought I'd ease him into it. He was very fond of boats and we ended up discussing navigation and knots the whole night, not even the kinky kind. Towards dawn, he opened up, came clean: poor bastard had a bad case of unrequited love."

"Wait, who did you say was paying for it?" Varric cuts in.

"The very woman herself."

"That's messed up."

"You haven't met her," Anders remarks, shaking his head. "Warden Commander Amell can be a true cold-hearted bitch when she wants to, and I say that with all the love."

"Comes with the job, I'd argue," nods Isabela. 

"She and Hawke are cousins, aren't they?" says the dwarf.

"Yes, though magic and family trees are all they have in common, if you ask me," the healer notes. "Hawke's a real puppy by comparison."

"Is it true she asked the King to undermine the Chantry?" Fenris asks him.

Anders laughs.

"Undermine it? That's cute." He goes on giggling for a while, until they're all looking at him. "Amell's the most outspoken opponent of the Chantry on this side of Thedas, a die hard Libertarian with no love for the Templars. Say, does that bother you?"

"Should it?"

"I don't know. She's a mage and a noble, all while having the King's ear."

"Power isn't that simple and Ferelden still has its Circle, last I heard."

"For now," says Anders, growing serious. "Oppression is as ugly a beast as any Archdemon and we'll bring it down yet. I know where I'll stand in that fight."

"If idealism won wars, I'd be shaking right now."

"Change will come and we'll see who's laughing then," proclaims the mage, slamming a fist against the table.

"Do I look amused to you?" snarls the elf.

"No, you couldn't even if you tried. Sometimes I wonder how your face doesn't tire from all that scowling, must be a full workout."

"Beats prattling about the mages' plight every other hour."

"You - " 

"Call!" shouts Isabela, casting her cards face up between them. "Shut up and pay up, both of you." 

"Kaffas."

"Andraste."

Three Serpents and two songs, bought from their bickering. They never stood a chance.


	30. Champion of the Just

"Tell me the truth, boy," asks Ser Thrask, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Is this related to the incident with that girl in the courtyard?"

Caught off guard, Carver can't help but flinch. The senior Knight's fatherly tone does little to avail his panic but he forces himself to meet his gaze nonetheless. They are alone in the refectory, the last Templars shuffling through the double doors to head back to their duties, yet his blood still runs cold.

For all the vows of silence, word travels fast in a Circle it would seem. An elven apostate was apprehended the other night in Darktown. Nobody will tell him more and he hasn't slept since.

***

As if Merrill's visit hadn't been enough of a disaster. Carver was on patrol that day. When he first caught a glimpse of her wandering about the Gallows, he assumed it was a trick of the mind. He was used to his longing tracing her features in other women - the soft dark hair, the slender arch of her silhouette, that spring in her step that Varric called frolicking - yet there she was, musing over poultices by Solivitus' cart. 

With both the dwarf and Garrett gone, it suddenly occurred to him that nobody was paying bribes. That Dalish tattoos were awfully distinctive in a place like this. That there was at least one person who could recognize her. Ruvena and Paxley were already staring, elbowing one another to decide who ought to get a closer look, so he cut through the courtyard without thinking twice. 

It felt like throwing rocks at a puppy. Those big green eyes growing heavy with tears had burned a mark into his very core. The sound of his own voice made him crinkle up inside whenever he thought about it. *Congratulations,* he could hear his brother say, *you made Merrill cry, you monster. Like a proper Templar.*

Carver didn't even realize how shaken it had left him until Knight-Captain Cullen pulled him aside for disciplinary action. 

"You've been paying little attention to your training and you're doing poorly in your tasks. Ser Emeric tells me you mixed up all the gear you were supposed to arrange in the armory. I also have it on good account that you've been picking fights all week. Care to explain yourself, recruit?"

That served as a wake-up call, if anything. He made up some excuse about being worried for his mother, all alone with that lowlife of an uncle. Cullen didn't buy it but let him go with a harsh reprimand and the promise of a flogging, should it happen again. There were many among the Order eager to see him gone. Of that, Carver had no doubt. They would be watching close.

***

"What incident?" It's the wrong thing to say and he feels like a coward for trying. "I told the others, she was just a thief." 

Ser Thrask narrows his eyes.

"I'm well aware what you've told the others. That's not what I'm asking."

It must have been Keran, that ungrateful sod. Didn't even have the courtesy to try and blackmail him first. Carver grips the hilt of the sword at his hip until his fingers go numb. He'll wish the demons had devoured him by the time I'm done. 

"Ease up, lad. I'm not here to pass judgement." 

Carver lets out a breath through his nose.

"Your brother showed me kindness and I see no reason why I shouldn't do the same."

His whole sword arm tenses and the old man's brow furrows in response.

"You're worried for your friend. I know as much."

"What do you want?"

"Your inquiries are bound to cause more harm than good. I'm aware I'm taking a risk saying this but given your circumstances I'll do it nonetheless. Let me help."

"How?"

"You wish to see the new charge but her Harrowing isn't scheduled until tomorrow night. I can put your name on the duty roster for the guard but only if you promise you won't do anything stupid."

The offer throws him off but it's too tempting to pass up.

"There has to be a catch."

"Indeed. You can tell Tethras to buy me a drink now that he's back." With that, Thrask smiles and leaves him standing there.

***

The senior Knight makes good on his word. After the evening's sermon, Carver finds his name on the list and wastes no time heading down. 

Ser Thrask beckons him at the foot of the stairs. A narrow stone corridor leads to the currently empty Harrowing Chamber - hopefully it will remain so tonight. On either side are sturdy wooden doors reinforced with heavy bands of iron. The lower level cells that serve as dungeons aren't that much different from the rest, save for the lack of windows and consequently, of natural light. Aside for a couple of apprentices deemed troublesome, most ought to be unoccupied, though that does little to stop the suppressed wails coming from within. 

Even their footfalls echo heavier down here. The metal handle of the lantern creaks pitifully as it dangles in the senior knight's hand and he can hear a muffled prayer as they pass. Carver can feel his skin crawling with apprehension, as if snakes were slithering underneath the padding of his armor. How could Garrett let this happen? They had one job, damn it, and that was to keep her safe. Sweet Andraste, how can he even face her after what he's done? Perhaps he could explain himself, beg for her forgiveness - but that's another matter altogether. Right now, his top priority is getting her out before they can accuse her of blood magic, or worse, make her Tranquil. Maker knows how many such nightmares had plagued his first weeks in the Gallows, jumping awake after having witnessed her, Garrett, or Beth staring blankly with the sunburst mark branded into their foreheads. He quivers at the very thought. 

"This is it," says the Thrask when they reach the last door. "I expect you'll wish to speak with her, though I advise you remain aware of your station and refrain from making any rash decisions. Remember, child, you swore to leave that life behind you for a reason. T'would be a shame to spoil everything now."

All he can do is nod. 

***

The key clanks into the lock and the door scrapes against the floor as the senior knight pulls it open. Carver wills his body to move past the threshold, shining the weak light inside. On the bare floor, huddled in the furthest corner, a bundle of rags hugs its knees with bony arms. The sudden noise and the sight of the open door drives her to press harder into the wall, feet slipping, shoulders narrowing, her whole body scrambling in a desperate attempt to make itself as small as possible.

It isn't Merrill, thank the Maker. Carver releases the breath he didn't know he was holding, at once relieved and deeply enraged. The fear in her big golden eyes is raw, trapping his own like amber, a faint whimper escaping her lips when he takes another step towards her. Another tentative look around tells him the room is empty, save for a simple cot with a straw mattress and a bucket. At his side, his fingers curl into a fist, clenching until his whole hand goes numb. Apostate, maleficar, hedge witch - nobody deserves this. 

"Aneth ara," he says, lowering himself into a squat to meet her at eye level. With a strained smile, he speaks softly in an attempt to sound reassuring. "I apologize if that's not right," he scratches his head, looking away.

"Are you alright?" he asks, fumbling. "I mean, are you hurt?"

There is a long moment of hesitation until she shakes her head in reply. Peering over his shoulder, he waits in turn before going on:

"What's your name?"

"Shiral," she whispers, staring at him over her knees. Her hair is lighter and longer than Merrill's but behind those matted strands he can discern no tattoos. 

"Wait, I think I know that one too," he says, scrambling his brains. "It means path? No, journey." 

The answer surprises even himself. Carver's always been a slow learner when it comes to such things, he'd never have fancied himself memorizing elven words like this. Yet here he is. During all those aimless strolls along the Coast and all those idle afternoons on the steps to Gamlen's house, Merrill's tales had stayed with him. They stuck in his mind - or perhaps in his heart - like the sound of her voice or the lilt of her speech, the more he went over the recollection of whatever time they'd spent together. Nevertheless, he'd be hard pressed to uncover more, content to have made use of what little he could retain.

"Where did you learn that?" asks the elf, fear giving way to curiosity in her tone. 

"I happen to have a friend among the Dalish," he shrugs, feeling his cheeks turn red. As if Merrill would still call him friend after what he'd done.

The apostate allows herself to smile. 

"I heard there was a clan nearby," she tells him. "That's where I was heading when I got caught. They say they're welcoming of mages and can provide shelter. I came all the way from Ostwick, looking."

Given their treatment of Merrill, he wonders about that but keeps the doubt to himself. Last he knew, Feynriel had been accepted just fine, despite his human blood. If he could get her out of this place, perhaps she could join them yet.

***

"I can't do anything right now but I promise I'll do my best to help," he whispers. The elf stares at him, a glimmer of hope sneaking into her eyes. 

"Ser Carver," calls Thrask, signalling that their time is up. 

So much for not doing anything rash.


	31. Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another two-parter, even if the title might not suggest it.  
> Warning for abuse.  
> Stay tuned because we all know what happens next.

"Any luck?" asks Garrett.

"I'm sorry, lethallin," says Merrill, watching him pace. "I've checked all over the alienage but nobody's seen anything."

"Go home, Hawke," Varric tells him. "I doubt we'll have any success tonight. He's been on the run for how long now - a couple of years? If he doesn't want to be found, we can't do shit, besides, you could hardly call him defenseless."

Garrett looks from one friend to the other then back again, relentlessly dragging fingers through his hair, thick with soot and sweat. Evening left the streets of Hightown deserted, lit only from the feeble lights filtering through some villa's tightly drawn shutters, yet the battered sight of them alone would be enough to make any potential passerby feel hard-pressed to change route. 

Hadriana and her cronies gave them a run for their money, the whole skirmish a brutal lesson in Tevinter strategy. There had been traps and shades and sacrificial slaves, though nothing in the world could have prepared them for the latter. Garrett could still feel the sickening metallic tinge of blood magic in his nose and at the back of his throat.

"What if there's more of them lying in wait?" he cries, unable to stand in one place. His Mabari whines, as if to emphasize the point. "What if he's gone, left Kirkwall for good? What if - "

"We'll keep looking, lethallin. Isabela said she'd be out at the docks and Varric and I are heading down to Darktown."

"I can put in a word with the Coterie, see if that helps," says the dwarf. "Aveline's been informed too, she's onto it. In the meantime, you should go home. Check on that kid we saved, make sure she's alright, explain the situation to your mother. We'll take care of this - Maker knows you have enough on your plate as it is." 

"But - "

Garrett falters as Dog bites into the stained edge of his tunic and tugs at it.

"See," adds Varric, pointing at the wardog. "Even he agrees." 

***

They had gone out for a swim on the Coast. Merrill rode on Garrett's back, crying out and clinging to his shoulders for dear life while he laughed like a scoundrel and threatened to topple. Dog ran around them in circles, barking, sand spraying from underneath his massive paws. Hanging behind at a distance, Isabela told a story while Fenris couldn't roll his eyes hard enough. 

"Ah, I can't see!" Looking for purchase, Merrill's palm had slapped across his face. The Mabari got tangled in his legs, sending both face down on the ground in a mass of screams and limbs. 

"Kitten!" Isabela bounded ahead to help. "Hawke, you idiot!"

They were still scrambling to their feet, when the shout came:

"You are in possession of stolen property."

"Maker damn it, Isabela," laughed Garrett, dusting the sand off his clothes. "What have you done now?"

Dog, on the other hand, was growling, baring teeth at the interlopers that closed in around them, swords drawn.

"Why me?" she retorted. "What are you? Andraste's sacred panty bearer, all innocent and free of sin?" 

Impervious to their bickering, the leader of the would be ambush went on:

"Hand over the elf and you shall be spared."

"Excuse me?" cried both at the same time.

"No one touches Kitten on my watch," added Isabela, pulling out a dagger.

The truth only dawned on him when he heard Fenris slowly advancing to his side. The tacky robes, the ugly armour, the nauseating sense of entitlement - those men could only be Tevinter. Garrett felt something akin to fear slither across his heart but nonetheless squared his shoulders, snarling as fire coalesced into into his fist. Worse yet was the sight of his companion, lyrium smoldering in cold bluish glints thought not flaring outright. The elf awaited his reaction - he noted with remote horror - expected a betrayal. 

"Fenris is a free man," Garrett shouted, casting. 

***

"An elven slave!" is the first the Leandra yells at him as he walks through the door. "Maker's mercy, Garrett!"

Curled up in a corner with a blanket on her shoulders, Orana watches them through lowered eyes, wary of meeting their gaze. Part of him is relieved to see she made it to safety, while the other breaks once more under the uncertainty of what happened to Fenris. 

"Guardsman Brennan brought her here, serrah," says Bodahn apologetically. "Told us she found her at the city gates, showing them the crest."

"What were you thinking?" Leandra assaults him anew. "We can't have elven slaves in this house. Slaves, Garrett! What will everyone say? Are you intent on dragging our name through the dirt after we've worked so hard to reclaim it?"

"There are worse things out there than a tarnished reputation, mother," mutters Garrett, struggling to contain his anger. Perhaps it's all the death he's seen all day, or the memory of that sordid slaver den, or Hadriana's last disdainful words that had oh so accurately hit their mark. Perhaps it is merely the glint of terror in the girl's eyes and the shuddering in her bruised limbs. By now he's learned enough from Fenris to understand she wouldn't survive on her own in the alienage. "And Orana is no longer a slave."

There is something final in his tone that allows no further concession to argument. Before tending to himself, he beckons the young woman to the washroom and asks for permission to heal her wounds. The haste with which she strips leaves him wondering if consent is something she truly understands but the latticework of scars on her back gives him pause. For a solid moment, Garrett regrets not being able to kill Hadriana again. It's one thing to listen to Fenris talk about the Magisters' abuse yet a whole other matter to face its marks on one's skin. He knows, of course, this is merely the surface but the rage smoldering within makes him swear. 

Channeling what's left of his mana, he closes the angry looking cuts on her arms and clears away the dark purple patchwork of bruises. 

***

"Don't you dare," cried Merrill, her voice ripe with revulsion. "I am nothing like that."

It was absurd, fighting amongst themselves like that. Varric was equally appalled at the comparison, all of them staring at the corpse dangling from its feet, throat slit and still dripping.

"All maleficar are alike," Fenris snarled at her. "Sooner or later, that is the result."

"The blood I use is my own and it is as much a part of my power as everything else."

"How reassuring," he scoffed at her.

"Enough," Garrett cut in. "This isn't what we came here for. Merrill is our ally. Take that as you may but it won't change the fact."

They moved on, deeper into the caves where the Magister's apprentice waited for them. 

***

The water turns crimson as he scrubs himself clean, wishing he could wash off everything he's witnessed in that Maker forsaken place. He grips the edge of the basin until his knuckles turn white, biting his lip to contain the howl clawing at his chest. What could he have said to Fenris to make him stay? What could he do, even if he were to come back, knowing what he knows now? 

Can one even hope to heal a wound as deep as that? 


	32. Yield, Heart, Yield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two, as promised.  
> And yes, we're diving into hurt/comfort territory.  
> Hope you enjoy ^^

A whole day passes without as much as a sign, then another. 

Aveline comes by, asks questions, pats him on the arm, and leaves. Varric does the same. Nobody has seen or heard anything. All the while, Garrett feels like he's drowning. 

He cannot stand to be in his own study, a mere glimpse at the leather-bound book on his desk enough to send him down that same odious spiral of thought he's been fretting over the past two days. Fragments of the time they spent together flash through his mind's eye, mixed with worries and mad speculation. 

He shouldn't have let Fenris storm out like that, he keeps telling himself, although deep down he suspects nobody could have anticipated this particular outcome. After all, they all assumed he needed to get out of there, for all the best reasons too. Then he should have rushed after him, Garrett continues, but how was he to know? 'Truth be told', says that hateful inner voice of his, 'you acted as you always do, freezing in your tracks when you ought to be taking the charge. Why must you always fall short like this? At least father didn't live long enough to watch you fail so spectacularly. You can't help anyone, you can't protect anyone, and when push comes to shove, you can't even have the good sense to stay out of the way.' 

***

It's well into the night when a pebble bounces off the window of his room. Garrett lies wide awake, flat on his back with his feet on the floor. Staring at fabric folds in the bed's canopy, he goes over and over that same mean inner monologue of his. 

Relief and disbelief wash over him in equal measure when he catches sight of the elf standing outside and he can't rush down the stairs fast enough, stopping short only at the door in a desperate attempt to regain some composure. 

"I was worried about you," he says in what he feels must be the understatement of the age. Arguably 'I went on a frantic two day search through all of Kirkwall and its near vicinity because I was afraid to lose you' doesn't sound as good, rather pitiful in fact, now that Fenris is standing in front of him and he can stop holding his breath. 

It takes all of his effort to remain calm, the savage beat of his own heart drumming violently in his ears. In all the time they've known one another and throughout all of the perils they braved side by side, Fenris has never felt so raw as this night, like a raging summer storm and the very forest ravaged by it at once, emerald green eyes so filled with a despair so keen it could cut. Not even the strongest of magic could soothe a pain so deep and once again does Garrett feel powerless in the face of suffering. 

Even so, they talk for a while. There is little else he can do, yet each word of his seems to make it worse and the hurt gushing out makes every ounce of his own being ache. The more he listens though, the clearer it becomes. Not only has Fenris lived through all of that but carries on doing so. A part of him is always there, still in chains, just as Garrett is always on that wretched path in the Wilds, still frozen in front of the ogre. He hasn't forgotten that moment in the Deep Roads he'd all but broken down and Fenris found him grieving. Nobody should have to endure that alone, so perhaps he could do the same.

"-stay," Garrett tells him, reaching out. 

His fingers meet skin then his back meets the wall. Swiftly, violently, hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

Fenris is furious. For a split second, Garrett wonders whether he's about to die and finds himself not caring. So be it. 'Here lies Hawke. He died trying.' There are worse ways to go. Instead of a fist however, what follows is a kiss, ravenous enough to numb the pain of the spiked gauntlet digging into his shoulder. Fenris pins his hand above his head, impervious to the sparks flying from his fingertips out of reflex, though Garrett manages to conjure up enough sense out of his quickly faltering reason to stop his magic from slipping out of control like that. If the elf notices, he doesn't show it but Maker, he is strong, so much stronger than Garrett imagined. Not that he has time to think, with those soft lips pressed to his, making their way down his neck, breath hot against his skin. A low moan escapes his throat and he instinctively pushes back only to find himself unable to move.

When Fenris pulls away, the sudden distance between them strikes him like a void but they somehow manage to make their way to the bedroom, half stumbling, half undressing in the space between two kisses. Damn those stairs and curse all that furniture. In their fervour, they nearly knock over a vase, which the elf deftly catches at the very last moments, all without missing a beat. Garrett scarcely gets the chance to marvel at his grace before getting shoved onto the bed. Fenris climbs on top, straddling his hips while holding him down. 

"Fuck me, you're beautiful," he says softly, and sweet Andraste that's true. His body is a work of art, all hard muscle and sinew elegantly carved into a slender yet solid frame. The flowing pattern of his brands only serves to emphasize the outline of the shapes beneath, the pale silver blue of lyrium contrasting against the dark hue of his skin. It isn't the sight alone that gives Garrett pause but also his bearing, the surety with which those arms can undo a man as efficiently as swinging a sword in battle. 

Their foreheads almost touch when Fenris leans in to kiss him again, stopping just short of it for a brief moment, and all Garrett can do is gaze at that face so dear to him framed by soft strands of white hair. Maker, he could stare into those eyes forever, losing himself in that perfect viridian sea beyond which might as well lie the abyss. 

***

After it is done, it's Garrett's turn to pull him close. Fenris casts him a bewildered look, like a hare faced with the sudden appearance of a hunter in its path, yet soon concedes and settles into his arms, head resting beneath his chin. The elf's body is tense, his breathing uneasy. Garrett holds him tighter, burying a hand in his hair, carding fingers through it, soothing him. 

"I love you." 

The words slip from his lips before he can stop them and for once he's grateful Fenris can't see his face and laugh at the expression there. He says it like a man hopelessly lost, surrendering to his fate. The truth of it is overwhelming. Indeed, he's known it for a while, though the full reality of it had yet to set in and now it bears down on him, like a dragon sinking its talons into the ground, making it quiver as it lands.

Meanwhile, in his arms he can feel Fenris shaking. Garrett doesn't realize he's crying until he hears the first sob. 

Idiot, how could you fuck this up?

Nevertheless, he doesn't let go, nor does Fenris move away. It's quiet at first, then grows more intense, each whimper a battle lost, each inhale deeper than the one before. Maker knows he's been strong for long enough.

"I'm here," whispers Garrett, stroking the back of his head.

He carries on comforting him until they both fall asleep. 


	33. Favour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor canon deviation time because the whole 'Hawke is so good in bed he can cure amnesia with sex' doesn't do it for me. Also, the development at the end is inspired by a thing that happened during my playthrough, so I worked into my headcanon. Hope you enjoy!

_A torn dress and a broken lip._ Anger. 

Fenris startles awake. There had been other images as well, fragmented memories diluted by dreams now slipping away faster than he can look at them.

_A courtyard and a child's game, laughter, a hovel and girl sewing an eye onto a rag doll, a button that he stole, heedless of the consequences._

Hawke stirs beside him, one arm still draped over Fenris' torso, but his breathing doesn't change. There's a mark on his neck where Fenris had sunk his teeth only a few hours ago. That actually happened, he realizes, what used to be a thought he barely brushed upon turned into tangible reality. 

So much has happened in fact, too much, too fast - Hawke's affection, his passion, Hadriana's death, her truth. Perhaps he did have a sister, once upon another life, or perhaps it's all one last act of cruelty that bitch wanted to inflict on him from beyond the grave. He needs to get out, clear his head, assess the damage. 

With care, he takes Hawke's hand to move it out of the way, noting the darkening bruises on his wrist as he does. There are plenty such marks on the mage's body, most but not all thanks to him. The only thing you're good at is hurting people, says a venomous little voice inside his head, this is what happens to when someone comes too close, they're bound to end up hurt. He has been a weapon for so long, he has forgotten how to do anything else. A sword cuts, a mace bludgeons, fire burns, all of them tools of destruction, Fenris among them. And at the end of it, Hawke, foolish, reckless Hawke, always messing with dangerous things. 

Fasta vass.

Slowly, he slides away and gets out of the bed, glancing over the room in search of his clothes. Faint daylight filters through the heavy velvet curtains bathing the room in cold dim light. In any other circumstances it wouldn't be so hard to leave, the deed done, the task fulfilled, the wrath postponed. But everything is different now. Exactly in what ways he cannot say, the chaos in his mind aflame and raging like the lyrium beneath his skin does in the heat of battle. 

***

Garrett opens his eyes to the silhouette of a Fenris pulling on his breeches against the steely shine of dawn. He had felt the absence before he could see it, the empty space beside him still warm as the weight of what is about to happen sinks in. The elf takes notice and stops, turning to face him, fine features lined with emotion and hesitance, white hair tousled and soft. There is something raw and deeply vulnerable in the way he stands there frozen by the bed and Garrett can't help but remember the blunder he committed right after the fact, more than a little terrified that this might be the first and last time he gazes upon this sight. 

The fire that rushes down to his loins does nothing to help, his mind struggling for purchase and losing the fight. 

"That bad?" he manages. Deep down he doesn't want to know the truth. 

"Quite the contrary," Fenris reassures him. 

They talk, both wary of making things worse and feeling all too naked to face it all at once. 

"Stay," Garrett begs, "just a little longer, just -" 

He trails off, staring pleadingly into the elf's eyes. It could have been worse - he expected Fenris to laugh at him yet there is no trace of amusement in his bearing. Garrett's fear doesn't relent though, gaining shape in the ever growing realization that half of his heart is about to walk out on him. 

"You're not making this easy, Hawke."

"Is it working?"

"No."

"Damn it," Garrett says, throwing his head back. If only his brain would cooperate for once.

Fenris is already strapping on his armour when the idea clicks into his mind. 

"Wait a sec," he tells the elf and starts rummaging through a chest on the opposite side of the room. If you're going to do something, do it right, that's what his father taught him. Might as well be a fool to the bitter end. "Hah!" he cries out victoriously, before padding back to Fenris with the most stupid half-repressed grin on his face and bowing dramatically.

"Brave ser," Garrett clears his throat. "You have proven yourself most formidable on the battlefield and most gallant in matters of the heart."

"Merciful Andraste," groans Fenris. "Hawke, no."

"Will you be this fair lady's Champion?" 

"This fair lady could do with a shave," he chuckles. "And less putting her life in danger all the time."

"Hey, nobody said it would an easy job," Garrett shrugs, tying a small red scarf to his gauntlet. "What?"

Fenris puts a hand on his, something akin to worry in his eyes. 

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, tracing a finger over the bruises on Garrett's wrist.

"It's fine." The marks fill him with renewed lust. "I can just heal them later." Not that he particularly wants to - he'll need them later to remind himself this wasn't all a dream. 

Sliding a hand behind Garrett's neck, Fenris pulls him closer for a kiss. The cool metal against his skin and the taste of his mouth sends his heart racing, a thrill of pleasure shooting throughout his whole body. 

Until a rap on the door calls them to attention. They break the kiss, gasping.

"Serrah Hawke?" comes Bodahn's muffled voice from the hallway. "Are you there, ser?"

"What is it?" shouts Garrett.

"You have a visitor, ser. Lady Merrill is here, shall I tell her to wait?"

"Shit," he whispers.

Fenris casts him a questioning glance before both of their expressions melt into a mutual panic. 

"I'll be down there in a moment," Garrett calls out. 


End file.
